


Amid the Ruin

by OrchidScript



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: AGoS spoilers, Gen, Just imagine the world sans magic and in the guise of imperial Europe between 1913 and 1919, M/M, Post-War, There is no magic in this one, World War I, acol spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 93,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: "There isn’t a night that passes where he hasn’t had to drink himself into a stupor to get near sleep. Not even the whiskey can’t keep him in bed. His brain won’t let his body just rest, not when it could parade gory image after vile memory after terror-laden vision in front of his eyes. Hours and hours worth of them. Successful nights ended in the small hours of the morning, his back soaked in sweat and lungs struggling to fill with air. The failures began and ended with him wide awake in his favorite worn armchair.Kell pulls his eyes away from the mirror, dropping his gaze to the polished wood. They drop to his hands. The left was flat, steady. The fingers of the right shook, a barely-there tremor that not even the drink could calm."Great War AU: It is December 1919 and Arnes is still reeling from five years of war. It's country, capital city, monarchy and people are left in pieces. In the midst of a struggling recovery, Kell struggles to work through his own memories, nightmares, and injuries.
Relationships: Alucard Emery/Rhy Maresh, Kell Maresh/Holland Vosijk
Comments: 100
Kudos: 101





	1. December 1919

**Author's Note:**

> Please Read: just a few things before we begin.  
> First: thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!  
> Second: A brief content warning. This is a Great War AU with all the inherent violence, trauma, and death. I did attempt to err on the side of artistry over graphic, but there are descriptions of battlefield injuries, gas attacks, etc. There is discussion of self-medicating, alcohol abuse, survivors guilt, and other aspects of personal trauma.  
> There, that about covers everything! Thank you for popping in and I look forward to hearing what y'all think :) You can find me here or over on Tumblr @orchidscript.

The room spun and the world tilted under his boots as Kell Maresh tried for the third time to stand. He slid back into his seat, slumping forward to press his forehead to the bar. 

Last call had long since come and gone, most of the Ruby Fields’ patrons having already disappeared onto the streets of Arnes. But Kell stayed, holding out until closing and likely after. The owner — a bitter old woman who had never suffered fools — didn’t mind him, allowing him to linger many nights until he got his legs under him enough to stumble outside or crumble face down into a bed upstairs. 

She had lost five in the war, had smelled the blood and mire on him the moment they made eye contact, despite his civvies. She didn’t completely hate him, unlike her other customers. He was a quiet person, a quieter drunk, and always paid his tab in full once he was sober enough to count out coins.

Cheek pressed to the cold polished wood, Kell stared at his right hand, the whiskey glass pressed to his palm. The booze went down smoother after the third one, not that he was savoring them anymore. Before the war, he’d liked to linger over a glass or two over hours, enjoying the idea of being out and about more than the drinks. Now, it was a singular nose-dive into numbness surrounded by the illusion of companionship.

Rhy didn’t come with him anymore. He preferred to hole up in what was left of the Maresh estate, drinking right from the bottle until he fell asleep in the bathtub.

Sometimes Kell caught him in the sitting room, a glass of wine sloshing in his hand as he stared up at their parents’ urns. Their father’s an elegant carved black stone, their mother’s a refined red-painted porcelain adorned with roses. In his blacker moods, Rhy would yell at them, as though they could still hear him. As though they could still have a bearing on the empire crumbling around them enough to relieve Rhy of the responsibility. Or absolve him of the guilt that plagued much of his waking hours. 

Kell drank like a fish to absolve himself of his own. 

He and his brother had waited out the winter of 1914, Rhy itching to enlist despite their mother’s worry. Everyone had been convinced the war would end by New Year’s, believed there was no conceivable way Vesk would keep up the fight and that Arnes had the man-power to snuff it out. When 1915 dawned and the trenches dug deeper than ever, Rhy had jumped. A prince remained with his people, in war and peace-time. 

And where Rhy went, Kell followed.

Their mother had demanded portraits, photographs of them in their neatly pressed uniforms. -In case you don’t come home- remained unspoken between them She kept them in silver frames on full display, proud of them on the outside. On the inside, she worried. Wrote Kell constant letters asking over and over if Rhy — her real son — was safe, was healthy. Word had finally reached London about the front’s abysmal conditions.

Kell walked past those portraits everyday. They sat in the tea room, staring at him. Mocking him and Rhy both. The young men they had once been — headstrong, reckless, young and stupid, so very very stupid — preserved for all time in their new fresh, clean uniforms. Those uniforms did not stay clean for long, as Kell and his brother had not remained young for long. 

The uniforms turned dusty and sweaty. Then soaked with rain, mud, sickness, gunpowder, and blood. 

The young men who had worn them torn up and burned to ashes.

They had reached the waning days of 1919, a fresh decade just over the horizon. It was nearly behind them, at least in the concept of time. A whole decade behind them. And yet Kell could feel his nails bending backwards to breaking as he clung to the memories, the dreams he couldn’t get rid of. 

The first time he saw a shell explode, horse and rider flying skyward. The sound of men vomiting in the trenches, sick from bad food and worse weather. The soaking rains at the end of February, turning every movement into mud-streaked, water-logged slog. The press of Rhy’s shoulder into his as they tried to sleep tucked into the muddy wall of the Western Front, the barest bit of comfort amid the ruin and wreckage.

Rhy shivering through fever that first spring, Kell wilting next to him. Their brief stint on leave in the countryside — a two week booze-filled haze laced with cloying perfume, the heat of another still-living body simply another thing to drown in. 

The humid, foggy day in late July when Rhy went over the top outside of command and fell face-first into the dust seconds later. Kell climbing up the wall after him, the hands of the other men in their company scrabbling at the soles of his boots trying to pull him back down to safety. How the crimson smear of blood had grown into a pool, soaking through the back of Rhy’s uniform as Kell dragged him by the collar back to the lip of the trench. The puckered, torn edge of fabric surrounding the bullet’s exit wound, just above his heart. 

The relief that had flooded him when he discovered his brother was still breathing, still alive, still inexplicably conscious. Shouting down at the men of the Royal Expeditionary Forces to catch him. How they had caught him when he fell, a bullet tearing its way through his collarbone and shoulder.

Kell jerks back up right as the memory presses too close. His eyes blown wide, blood pulsing painfully in his neck. The whiskey sloshes in its glass and Kell downs the last inch, savoring the burn in his throat and the coughing that follows.

He can’t think about it.

He thinks about it constantly.

He pushes the glass away, leaning forward on elbows, digging his palms into his eyes as he tries to grind away the image.

Kell doesn’t like thinking about blood anymore. There had been so much blood, too much for even the dry earth to soak up. It coated his hands, his tongue, his teeth. It sat in rusty smears over his cheeks, through his auburn hair and leather boots. It stuck to skin, caked and dried on the faces of the dead where they lay when battles were too thick to retrieve them, some an arms-length away. 

Too much blood. Too much death.

Kell leans back on his bar stool, biting deeply into his lower lip. He catches himself in the mirrored back of the bar. It’s not a face he recognizes beyond the blue eyes, and even those have gone dull. The undersides were a tender swath of grey from night after night of no sleep or very little.

He looks haunted. 

Feels haunted. 

Is haunted.

There isn’t a night that passes where he hasn’t had to drink himself into a stupor to get near sleep. Not even the whiskey can’t keep him in bed. His brain won’t let his body just rest, not when it could parade gory image after vile memory after terror-laden vision in front of his eyes. Hours and hours worth of them. Successful nights ended in the small hours of the morning, his back soaked in sweat and lungs struggling to fill with air. The failures began and ended with him wide awake in his favorite worn armchair.

Kell pulls his eyes away from the mirror, dropping his gaze to the polished wood. They drop to his hands. The left was flat, steady. The fingers of the right shook, a barely-there tremor that not even the drink could calm. Residual from that July day at the edge of the trench. 

Rhy had been shot clean through, the bullet an inch from lodging in his heart. He had walked away with a knotted scar only to demand he be sent back to the front in time for the 1916 campaign. 

Kell’s collarbone had shattered and never healed properly. Pinched nerves, wandering bone fragments, and bruising exacerbated by how he had pushed away from the other medic, shoving to his brother’s side to stabilize him first. His brother had always come first and always would. He had when they were children, still navigating the newness of one another. He had even more as they had grown older, days and nights spent finding trouble faster than trouble could find them. 

There had been no question that hot day at the bottom of the trenches, dust settling in sheets around them. Kell worked as quickly and diligently As blood ran in ribbons down his arm, wrist, palm, and fingers. As his shoulder screamed for him to stop moving it. As Rhy -- miraculously, inexplicably still conscious -- took his hand and told him to let the other man take over. He worked until the wound was cleaned and packed and bandaged, until two of the other men dragged him away and forced him to be cared for. 

He had screamed for them to let him go, let him finish the job -- he was a medic too, didn’t they fucking know? -- but they held him down. Kell only stopped struggling when one of the other men jammed a hand against his broken collar and the agony knocked him back. His arm hadn’t been the same since, smarting at every wrong move. Rhy didn’t know and Kell would never tell him.

A hand slammed flat against the bar, Kell jumping. The bitter old woman stood in front of him, eyes hard and brow furrowed.

“C-Closing?” He says, stumbling over his word.

“Yes,” she answers sharply. It was her usual. “Go home,  _ aven vares _ . You’re sober enough.”

“You think?” He breathes, rising to his feet. The world stays put now. He digs through the pockets of his coat, warm worn grey wool, dropping a decent stack of coins on the wood. “Thank you.”

“You’re ten over.”

“I know.”

“Take it back.”

Kell shakes his head. “No. It’s yours. Call it a penance for how often I’m here, taking up space.”

The woman stares at him, unblinking, for a few moments more. She nods stiffly and slides the whole pile into her cupped hand. Kell couldn’t help a small smile at what passed for gratitude in this place. He steps back from the counter and makes his way to the front door.

“Good night, Fauna.”

“That’s ‘good morning’ to you,  _ mas vares _ .”

He hated the title, but appreciated how she said it. Without an ounce of deference or flattery, just enough acid in the tone to remind him that she couldn’t have cared less about his royal status. In her bar he was only one man, merely human, merely mortal like the rest of them. 

Kell didn’t need the reminder -- he had had nearly three years of horrors to remind him -- but he took it. If nothing more than to further endear himself to her.

The monarchy was in tatters anyway. Their parents’ deaths had left Arnes in a vacuum, only alleviated once Rhy agreed to leave the front lines and return home. He had spent the intervening years ending a war he had not started and attempting to rebuild a country nearly lost to shelling, to invasion. To the creeping blackness of Osaron.

He can see the swirling blackness around his ankles as he walks the empty cobblestones in the direction of the palace, or what was left of it. It wasn’t there but he could still feel it. It had been an invention of Makt, a chemical unleashed in the northern battlefields and quickly spread south as Vesk found it to their advantage. 

They knew it from the sound.

The shelling and gunfire would halt, the air around them going so silent no one dared breathe. A soft pop from a mile away, then the resulting dull metallic clang much closer. Then the world would explode in panic -- the scramble for masks and eye pieces, pulling helmets low and collars up higher -- plunging once more into apprehensive, eerie silence until finally the canister released its contents. 

A creeping, thick smoke-like fog that wasted everything in its path. Grass shriveled, hair burned. The mud turned toxic after it settled and soaked in. It crawled across the upturned earth of No Man’s Land and down into the trench lines. It slithered around arms and legs, looking for the gap in the uniform, the unsecured mask, any opening where it could slip through, coat the nose and mouth, strangling the victim from the inside out. The corpse couldn’t be touched for days after, left to rot in makeshift quarantine until they chucked some poor sap back over the top to drag them home.

They called it the “shadow king,” securing it forever in legend. 

In poetry and sorrow-filled drinking songs.

In nightmares.

Rhy had insisted the peace accords include regulation of its use. Namely, that no one would or could ever again. All parties had agreed, but only just. Vesk had insisted they be allowed to keep a store for their “scientific pursuits”. Makt was outraged that one nation could demand a weapon be put out of commission. Only Faro had agreed without stipulation, coming to Arnes’ aid as quickly as Arnes had come to theirs in 1914. 

His brother had been forced to make concessions that their father never would have, if only to save another million lives in some far-flung uncertain future. Rhy was not the man their father was, and Kell believed it was for the best. Under him, Arnes could recover. Under him, trust in the ruling class might be restored. His brother’s charm and even keel would help him. The knowledge that he had served three years alongside his people would be invaluable.

Kell climbed the steps to the front doors, passing the stationed guards without a word. They knew where he went and no longer worried or followed. For that Kell was grateful.

The palace was silent, Rhy likely having collapsed into sleep hours before. The halls were dark and empty, reduced to a grey-scale in the pre-dawn light. Kell walked to the foot of the stairs leading to their rooms and paused on the first tread, turning to stare back in the direction he had come. The spider-webbed cracks in the marble floors and mosaic walls. The cut of a draft at the back of his neck from the bombed-out sections still off limits and unrepaired. The shadows of trees swaying in the warm night air of the gardens looking far too much like ghosts. 

The ghosts of their parents, their friends, members of the court who had followed Rhy’s example.

The phantoms of so many limp bodies Kell had caught, carried, dragged, and buckled under. The dead men whose eyes watched him turn corners day and night, whose fingers reached out beyond the veil to snag at coat hems, tug at hair, brush against hands in vacant corridors. 

Kell stood there, arms limp at his sides, holding silent vigil, bearing silent witness. He wished he could see them, hear them. Wished they could tell him what to do when delivering their effects, their last letters, their final words did not feel like enough to assuage the guilt of continuing to live. He breathes in deep, letting the air flow out through his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the walls, the air. “If I wanted to leave… would you let me? Or would you follow me there?”

He turns away before he can pretend to hear a response.


	2. November 1914

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter today, folks, but I thought it would help lay the ground work a little more.  
> Enjoy!

_ November 1914 _

Rhy huffs and slouches down against the armchair’s velvet back. This conversation wasn’t going the way he had planned. Not that he had had much of one to begin with, but he’d at least thought he could get his parents to quickly agree and see sense. Only Kell was completely immune to his affable charm and easy wit. Instead, tea time had become a lecture, a debate.

“The boy’s nearly eighteen, Emira. I was stationed on the Blood Coast at that age. It would do him good to know and appreciate first hand how this army conducts itself, runs itself.”

“Absolutely not. His birthday is a week away. Until then his is still seventeen, still a child, Maxim. The answer is no. A supervised review of the troops perhaps, but I will not have my son in combat.”

Rhy sighs heavily. He sips his tea, listens to his parents squabble wearing the same half-bored expression his brother sported daily in court. He mentally kicks himself. He should have waited until Kell returned to bring this up. His brother was out delivering missives and marching orders to aristocratic families and military outposts around London -- something he despised more thoroughly than anyone ought to. He would be looking for an argument, a scab to pick, something to exhaust the hours-worth of pent up annoyance when he returned. Rhy could have leveraged that, should have waited, but the whole affair was too exciting.

Arnes was at war for the first time in decades, in Rhy’s own lifetime. 

Waiting around London felt like a waste of time, a waste of space, a waste of himself. This skirmish wouldn’t last forever and Rhy wanted to see a real front line before it evaporated at winter’s end. Confined to the palace’s rooms and gardens made him feel more intolerably spoiled and soft than he ever had before.

No one thought this war would last. 

Vesk was simply pushing its boundaries, testing its neighbors and allies as they moved to establish themselves. Their army was small, navy even smaller, and they were busy bolstering a cavalry instead of pursuing new-age machinery. Vesk could not hold out past February. All of the king’s advisors had said so. They were no match for Arnes’ clearly better numbers, and couldn’t retreat with Makt -- still smarting from another struggle for the throne and new empress itching to prove herself -- hemming them in from the other side.

Rhy, too, was itching to prove himself. If he thought about it long enough, he might admit he had been waiting for such an opportunity since childhood. He was a peacetime prince, brought up on stories of his father’s own daring military exploits, albeit versions sufficiently watered down for his and Kell’s young ears. It didn’t matter. Rhy had been enthralled. He had goaded Kell into reenacting those stories during playtime -- running raids up and down corridors; hunting enemy soldiers in the garden; naming the rose garden one fort, the fountain and pond another. Rhy would stylize himself as the Steel Prince, his father. Kell would purse his lips, roll his eyes, and grudgingly agree to be Fieldmarshal Isra, turning bright pink if the woman, now commander of the king’s guard, overheard them.

_ The Steel Prince. The Golden King. _

Rhy wanted a title like that. 

Kell had one -- the Black-Eyed Prince, for his constant stone-faced stare and generally cold demeanor -- but that was less for any real bravery, more a term of endearment from the ladies of the court who he so intently ignored. Rhy had a long list of names, but nothing as interesting as that.

_ Rhy Maresh, crown prince of Arnes, heir to the Soner Rast throne, defender of London. _

Boring, simple. All titles that had been worn by others across time and space.

Rhy wanted something all his own.

He had often thought about what he would like to be called, if he ever earned a nickname from his people. He had wandered his private rooms well into teenagehood, donning different capes and coats, adjust the set of his golden circlet, and giving himself new names. Kell had caught him at it once, staring unseen in the secret doorway between their rooms. He had snickered a bit too loudly at “the Lionhearted,” giving his hiding spot away.

Rhy had glared at him, opening his mouth to tell him off.

Kell had waved it away, stepping into the room and flopping down onto a chair.  _ “It doesn’t suit you, Rhy.” _

_ “The name or the epaulets?”  _ Rhy had grumbled, tossing both aside and crossing his arms.

_ “Frankly, both. But just the name. You haven’t done anything brave yet.” _

_ “And you have?” _

_ “I’m constantly kind to you, aren’t I? _ ” Kell grinned, blue eyes warming.  _ “Neither of us really have. But the name should fit you, who you are, even behind closed doors. Shouldn’t it?” _

Rhy had sniffed, staring at Kell from the gilt-edged mirror, back turned in embarrassment.  _ “What do you suggest then?” _

Kell always had a knack for laughing through Rhy’s annoyance, and had then.  _ “Oh, I don’t know… Rhy Maresh, the Unwinnable has a nice ring to it.” _

Rhy chewed idly at the inside of his cheek, tapping his fingernails against the bone china teacup in his hands. His parents had long since forgotten him in their frustrated deadlock. His father was on his side. His mother was staunchly against the idea. This war was his chance to earn that so-coveted title from his people. A chance to lose the oft gossiped about softness of being a coddled sole-heir. A chance to be his own man -- a  _ man _ \-- instead of the little boy his mother’s influence kept him as.

Of course she would be against it. Rhy had known that from the moment he broached the idea to Kell back in September. He hadn’t expected she would put up such a fight.

“Absolutely not!”

“It would be a protected post, Emira.”

“Never mind protected, it would still be the  _ front lines _ , Maxim! He’s not ready for that.”

“I wasn’t ready for it, no one ever is. Trial by fire is the only way for a man to make his bones, and Rhy should start before he takes over.”

“That will be years from now!"

“Tell that to the departed Hok Taskon whose assassination started this whole calamity.”

“Kell would come with me,” Rhy spits out quick enough to fit in the gap between their rebuttals. His mother and father turn to stare at them, startled but attentive. Rhy pushes himself back up to a more respectable sitting position. “I would not be endeavoring this alone, mother. Kell and I have talked extensively about enlisting not only for our own benefit, but for the country’s.”

Emira opens her mouth to argue in return, but Maxim quickly grabs her hand and squeezes it.

“You were saying, son?” He says, gesturing for Rhy to continue. Rhy can see the pride simmering under the surface of his father’s easy, collected facade, and feels vindicated. He knows he’s about to get his way, and the soft echoing of Kell’s boots on marble floors bolstering the sensation of success.

“It’s simple, really,” Rhy begins. He sets his cup and saucer to the side, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back. A practiced posture designed to convince his parents that he was reasonable, in his right mind. “If I do not serve in any capacity, it reflects badly on the crown, as if I am not strong enough to do so. I certainly do not need to be at the front lines, if it eases your mind, mother. But I should be there, shouldn’t I? Col Taskon is leading his own section of the infantry, and the Dane twins are known to ride in the front line of a cavalry charge.”

His mother, stubborn and bristling, looks out the windows behind his head. She pressed her lips together into a thin line. It was reasonable, beyond reasonable, and she hadn’t another way to refute it beyond digging in her heels alone. 

Rhy turns his gaze to his father alone. “You always told me a prince belongs with his people. This would be the utmost way to show that.”

“The utmost way to kill yourself,” His mother says through gritted teeth.

“Emira,” Maxim soothes, enveloping her hand in both of his. “This is sensible, I promise.”

“Mother, Kell would join me, remember?” Rhy urges, angling to try earning her eyes again. “Please, I have thought this through. Kell and I both have. I could take an officer’s position, stay back from the front and ensure orders are carried through as directed. Kell would take a medic’s rank and remain at my side.”

Emira’s expression flickers, her resistance beginning to fail under the pressure of her husband and beloved son.

“What will I be doing, brother?” Kell’s voice, balanced and deep, sounds from the doorway. He fixes Rhy with a humorless stare, the one usually accompanied by the words  _ who told you this was a good idea? _

Rhy offers a bright smile. “Joining me at the front as a medic. As we discussed.”

“Oh. That,” Kell sighs and steps into the room. He removes his red coat, folding it neatly across his knees as he sits, back ramrod straight instead of his usual debutante slouch. A sign that he sensed the Queen’s ire and didn’t endeavor to incur it upon himself.

“What do you mean ‘oh that’?” Rhy teases, slipping back into his usual sparkling good-humor.

Kell ignores him, focusing tired eyes on their parents. “I suppose he’s told you that we’ve discussed this amongst ourselves?”

“He has.”

“Then I’ll only add this,” Kell nods. “I’m more than willing to join my brother in this plan of his, I’m more than prepared for it. You had me trained by the Sanctuary for a reason, and I believe this is it. It will look good for the crown, safely satisfy Rhy’s preoccupation with it…”

He pours himself a cup and looks down to his boots. “Mother, if it becomes unsafe in any way, I’ll send him home and stay myself. You have my word.”

Rhy does his best to keep down the bubbling excitement, fizzing in his blood like freshly poured champagne. Kell’s little speech was the nail in the coffin, he knew it. His father looked pleased, his mother slowly being ground under by her hatred of conflict. He poured more tea and drank it to stifle his smile. He and Kell were going to get some piece of this fight before it was through. They were going to have an adventure, their own real adventure. 

_ Rhy Maresh. Crown prince of Arnes. Heir to the Soner Rast throne. Defender of London.  Officer first class of the Royal Arnesian Expeditionary Forces. _

It had a nice ring to it, didn’t it?


	3. December 1919

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, I'm back on my present day bullshit. Lots and lots of clothing talk in this one here, y'all, so hang tough to the end.  
> Curious about what these immaculate, perfectly tailored uniforms look like? Wander your sweet little self over to this address and soak in the goodness: http://bit.ly/2SUz1bJ
> 
> Another note: I am modeling Arnes after the Ottoman Empire for this fic. After much research, I found that there is no Arnesian word for "king" (prince, yes, but apparently not for king. *shrug*). I have decided to use titles popular during the Ottoman Empire used for the Sultan for the Arnesian monarchy. All of Rhy's titles would have been used at the time, save for "mas hazra" which is my own invention in imitation of the already established "mas vares."
> 
> Alright, enough notes. Go, read, enjoy!

Kell woke with a start, gagging on vomit. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep it off the sheets, his other hand resting itself on his throat. Curled on his side under the blankets, he swallowed, bile stinging it’s way back down. He gulps down air, pushing himself to sitting, flinging his legs over the side. Kell’s hands grip the mattress, head hanging between his shoulders to cool the sweat soaking his back. He had managed to slide his coat from his shoulders, kick his boots into a corner, and strip himself of his shirt. He had collapsed into bed still wearing his trousers and undershirt, the slides on his suspenders digging into his shoulders.

But he had fallen asleep and, based on the streaks of weak yellow light spreading across the wooden floor, stayed asleep past sunrise. That alone was a small miracle. Hangover aside, Kell hadn’t slept so well in weeks. He wondered if he would feel any better for it.

He takes deep breaths, counting to ten while willing his stomach to settle. When it finally does, he hoists himself up to standing. The world stays still under his feet. He feels like death warmed over. He splashes water onto his face and neck, swabbing a washcloth over his chest and shoulders, under his armpits and across the back of his neck. Cleaning the grimy, sticky, salt-sweat feeling from his skin. He takes a hesitant sip of water to clean out the sour, cottony coating in his mouth then wanders towards the door.

The palace used to be lively, full of bustle and noise. Something happening around every corner, just inside every doorway. It was enchanting as a child and, as he had grown older, Kell had found it comforting. He stood out here, standing a full head above most of the court, easily spotted at a distance with milk-pale skin and auburn hair. The customary red of the court clashed with his hair, his eyes, his demeanor, his need to pass unseen. In those corridors teeming with hustling servants, changing of the king’s guards, citizens visiting morning and afternoon for audiences with the monarchs, Kell often found himself happily alone in a crowd. A simple passer-by, part of the set dressing, not someone to be accosted or stared at or (most terrible of all) flirted with.

When Kell had arrived home just over a year prior, empty silent halls greeted him. Rhy was running the palace on a shoestring -- slimming the servant count to a handful, trimming the rooms needed to be cleaned and prepared daily down to five, and allowing leave with pay to anyone grieving. His brother kept as many as possible on retainer, but was forced to recognize that of those who had enlisted in solidarity with the two princes many had not come home themselves. Many of the young  _ ostra _ as well.

Swathed in mourning silks in their honor, the Soner Rast fell into unshakable stillness. Rhy and Kell spoke only during meals and audiences, otherwise spending the days apart. The only exception being a slip of paper slid under Kell’s door every morning. A day’s agenda penned in his brother’s own neat hand. There wasn’t any ill-will between them. They still loved each other, still remained loyal down to their bones. Neither of them had anymore to say to one another. There had simply been too much noise over the last four years any way. 

The folded rectangle of parchment rested where it usually did, a few feet away from the gap under the door. The dark blue ink seeped through the back, haphazard splotches showing that Rhy had been deep in his cups when he wrote it the night before. Too much ink on the nib, too much pressure, too much force while dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Rhy wouldn’t admit to it, even if Kell had the energy to confront him about it. Even if Kell admitted to his own bad habits. He had tried, after Rhy’s near-fatal injury, taking the bottle away and his brother had all but actually taken his head off. Kell was not motivated to try again, was very aware he would have to deprive himself for Rhy to abstain.

Kell crouched down slowly, afraid of jostling his stomach again, and popped the seal on the letter. Red wax with a faint gold seam through it, the chalice and sun seal of the Maresh monarchs impressed into the center.

_ Sunday, December 21, 1919 _

_ Morning: Regular audiences, private audience with Parlo. Bring the dossier and current plans for rebuilding London, specifically the market and key bridges. _

_ Mid-day: Meetings throughout London, subject to change depending on urgency. Desan is most urgent, according to Isra. Review of the guard upon return.  _

_ Afternoon: Arrival of delegate from Makt, private audience regarding renewal of peace talks. No word on how long they are intending to stay or how long that meeting will take, nothing planned afterwards. _

Then, scribbled at the bottom, script turning sloppier with drink:

_ Kell,  _

_ Would you please wear your dress uniform for today? I will be wearing mine. Although it’s been months, I feel it would strike a better chord than Father’s regalia. No, I don’t care if it’s the black one. I know you prefer it. I apologize for whatever state you find me in tomorrow morning. I’ve only been able to think about the Sonal campaign for the last couple of nights. Ise av eran. _

_ V.R.M. _

Kell smiled to himself, as he did most mornings, at the closing. 

_ V.R.M. _

_ Vares Rhy Maresh _

Even after two years, his brother remained entirely uncomfortable with his true title, choosing to remain simply a prince in his own mind. Kell would stand in court at Rhy’s right hand, noting how his brother’s jaw tightened at the very formal  _ han hazretleri _ or the usual  _ King Rhy _ . A look of longing coming over his eyes whenever Kell was addressed as  _ mas vares _ or the well-hated  _ aven vares _ . The subtle cringe at the full honorific, read out at the beginning of every public audience. Twice daily, every single day, no exception.

_ Padishah Rhy Maresh Han Hazretleri _ .

_ His Imperial Majesty, King Rhy Maresh. _

His brother did not want to be king, that much was clear to those who could read him.

“Alright… service dress,” Kell murmurs, walking through his rooms, dropping the letter at the end of his bed. He let out a heavy breath opening the wardrobe doors, flinging them wide and stepping back. 

So much finery. Wasted on him.

He considered the royal-appropriate clothing before him, fabrics and cut that made him look like the prince he wasn’t. Rhy had given him permission to wear the one he felt most comfortable in -- a safe, dour black uniform adorned with minimal gold braid, a scant few medals, the service bars of an infantry medic and a captain each. 

Rhy had been sufficiently put out when Kell had been named a Captain of the Expeditionary Forces, a full two ranks higher than his own Officer 1st Class. Rhy hadn’t thought more deeply about their ranks than that he would be an officer and Kell would be a medic, exactly what he required to convince their parents to let him go. And in that regard, his scheme had gone according to plan. But this? This wouldn’t do. Kell had laughed at his pouting, as if Rhy assumed he  _ wanted _ to outrank him. No, Kell had left that decision up to their father in negotiation with their mother. 

It was entirely by design. 

Kell was meant to protect Rhy, he had no delusions about that. Simply by outranking the crown prince, Kell could order him home without fuss if their position became too dangerous. This alone was the final nail in the coffin of Emira’s resistance.

Kell pulled the garments out, laying them across the bed and studying them. One hand resting in his hair, the other running two fingers under his suspender strap, Kell stalled on changing into the uniform. He remembered the day it had been fitted -- Emira had insisted on both of their uniforms being exactly tailored, as she would not have her sons wearing something off the rack while representing the crown. Even if they were dressed in muddy fatigues on a far-away battlefield.

Kell had gritted his teeth and held still as the tailor walked patient, dizzying circles around him. Pinning fabric into place and making quick seams here and there until she ordered it off him to complete the work. He had stood uncomfortably in one spot on the elaborately woven rug as she sat with the jack turned inside out on her lap, silver needle darting in and out of the layers of wool, cotton, silk as she installed the lining. She chatted amicably with him, exuding a warmth that didn’t seem put upon or forced. She meant to be that kind to him, unafraid of his hard exterior and serious gaze. By the time both dress and daily uniform were perfectly fitted, Calla had managed to prod Kell into talking, pulling out the barest hint of a smile as he escorted her to Rhy’s rooms.

_ “There we are,” _ She had grinned at him, eyes sparkling with mirth.  _ “Not so cold and unknowable are you?” _

_ “Promise you won’t tell. I have a reputation to keep up,”  _ Kell had joked.

_ “You have my word, mas vares. I like keeping worthwhile secrets.” _

If only she had known about the mud, how her hard work would be singed and shot through. 

When he was on leave towards the end, escorting Rhy home to plan a coronation, Kell had brought his fatigues to her shop for repair hoping she could make the bullet hole vanish. He had been met with the greyed, devastated face of her sister, the news that the woman who had kept his secrets had died. He didn’t ask how. He simply dug all the money he had out of his coat pocket and shoved it into the hands of Calla’s sister.

_ “She was a good friend,” _ was all Kell could manage in explanation.

Later that night, he had sat cross-legged in his armchair with a needle and thread, repairing the hole with less than a quarter of the skill Calla had. The seam was haphazard, puckered, accidentally snagged at the lining where it wasn’t meant to. Kell had jammed the needle one too many times into his thumb, sucking away the pinpricks of blood as he glared down at his work, furious not with the stitches but with the damn war that just wouldn’t end.

He had covered the scar of fabric with his captain’s bars, a few campaign ribbons. There was nothing he could do to cover up the scar blooming across his collarbone, unfurling into his shoulder.

He ran his fingers across the raised, puckered skin as he slipped the suspenders from his shoulders then shucked his undershirt and trousers. He pulled on and slowly buttoned the dress shirt -- clean white with a stiff high collar and cuffs -- careful not to move his shoulder too quickly. The wound would ache today, Kell knew it from the way he had woken up, the wet chill at the windows, the mere memory of how he had received it. Next came the trousers, the accompanying riding boots.

Finally the jacket.

Kell let out a harsh breath and reached for the shoulders, removing the braided gold epaulets. He hated them anyway. Why his brother insisted they be added in recent months Kell would never know and dared not ask. But he was nearly 25 and Rhy hadn’t paid his clothing any attention in months. Kell left the looping braid secured under the arm -- it wasn’t nearly as bothersome as the epaulets. Fringe gone, it left red silk ribbons exposed, bright and bold against the black. He smiled to himself, admiring the contrast as he unbuttoned the front revealing the matching deep red of the interior.

He laid the front open, like revealing the pages of a book on a lectern. He ran soft fingers over the water-smooth silk, paying specific attention to the neat seams, the precise stitching of the monogrammed  _ V.K.M.  _ tucked into the sleeve head. He had watched Calla make them, fascinated by how quickly her fingers worked. She had told him she kept her nails longer than she liked so her needle would have something to bounce off, that silk was strong and practical despite it’s ostentatious reputation, that no she would be adding the “V” and did not care for his childish grumblings over it.

Another ghost. The invisible hands of the woman who had taken a silly, worthwhile secret to the grave. Hands he didn’t mind brushing against his coattails and hems.

Kell lifts the thing by the collar and walks over to the full length mirror propped near the door. Rhy had insisted, Kell hadn’t cared for it. Now he stood in front of it, forcing himself to look. To examine his face and the shadows that lived there. He slowly buttoned the dress jacket, fingers stiff and cold that morning. Adjusting the soutache-adorned cuffs and collar, untangling the cords looped under his arm, palm brushing over the dual rows of buttons, clip the belt in place over his waist. Finally, he stood back for the full image. He was surprised he didn’t hate the image as much as usual. He still looked every inch a soldier -- well, except the hair; that had grown out nicely since. The straight back, squared shoulders, chin up, set jaw his father would have been proud of, was very proud of in life. He smirked, chiding himself for the vanity of it. 

“Captain Kell Maresh… fancy. I should get Rhy to change it. No more ‘mas vares’, just ‘captain’...” Kell whispers, half-laughing at himself. A little bitter, a little amused. Talking to himself because there was no one else to talk to. “I should start talking to the ghosts. What do you think, Calla? Am I presentable enough?”

Of course there was no answer. There never would be. Kell watched his expression sober, his near-smile flatten and fade, venturing to fill in.

“No, you should wear the hat. Complete it… I don’t think so, it’s a bit much. Besides, I have the coat and it isn’t  _ that  _ cold… Like yourself, mas vares?... If you say so, Calla. If you say I’m not.”

He nods to his reflection. “Good enough for breakfast. Coffee and something plain, probably for both of us.”

He turns on his heel and heads out into the hallway, his two guards falling neatly into step behind him. Kell ignored them, too used to having two extra shadows behind him. Rhy insisted on keeping the guard, keeping two stationed with both of them at all time and an extra four stationed in the hallway outside any room they were occupying. Grief, uncertainty, and the memory of their parents’ deaths rolled into one became the reason, obscured under Rhy’s short answer: 

_ “I’m king and I feel safer this way. So they stay.” _

Kell felt safer with them too. 

He and Rhy had dodged them every chance they could as teenagers, slipping out windows, balconies, once over the back garden wall to wander unsupervised through London’s streets. Kell hadn’t been the mastermind of those plans, but had gone along with a knife safely stowed in his coat just in case. After a few misadventures, Kell cared less about how often he was blamed for Rhy’s reckless behavior and more about keeping Rhy out of the worse trouble he tended to find.

They had no trouble staying well in line these days.

Rhy is sitting hunched over a spread of correspondence in the tea room, a cup of coffee long forgotten on the outer edge. He leaned to one side as he wrote responses, eyes flickering up to the original letters and back down. Just like Kell, he was dressed in a stripped down version of his dress uniform -- a stiff, high-collared white jacket trimmed in rich red, his brother’s smooth brown skin providing contrast. Rhy’s epaulets were intact, the usual gold chords on his traded out for more a more subdued white.

“You’re late,” Rhy murmurs without looking up as Kell sits across from him.

“Am I?” Kell pours a cup of coffee for himself, adding a scant spoonful of sugar.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware eight in the morning was late.”

Rhy pauses his furious scribbling to fix Kell with an irritated stare. “When you’ve been awake since four, as I have, everything and everyone is late.”

Kell raises an eyebrow, sipping his coffee and reaching for the breakfast tray. “Fair enough. Why am I dressed up this morning?”

“Because I said so-.”

“And you’re king?”

“And I’m king.”

“I should have known,” Kell muses with practiced patience. When Rhy slept badly or not at all, he was hellish until the exhaustion settled in his blood and mellowed him out. Kell reaches for the silver coffee pot and pours Rhy a fresh cup, adding the cream, sugar, and cinnamon he prefers. He sets it on a saucer on top of the spread of paper.

“I don’t want it.”

“Drink it.”

“What gives you the wherewithal to order me ar--?”

“I outrank you. Drink it,” Kell says firmly. He and Rhy lock eyes for a long moment. Kell takes the chance and kicks Rhy’s ankle under the table.

Rhy glares and rolls his eyes. “You’re a child.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Kell smirks. “Why are  _ we _ dressed up?”

Rhy lets out a harsh sigh, but he sets down his pen and picks up the coffee cup. He drinks deeply, shoulders relaxing a fraction of what they should. “The delegation from Makt is already in the city, and I don’t have any reason to believe they won’t be observing us until the formal reception this afternoon. Looking for weaknesses, any sign of a lax monarchy. We can’t afford to be anything less than perfect.”   


“Hence the dress uniforms, the out and about schedule?”

“Precisely,” Rhy says, voice edged in frustration. “If what Tieren says is true, they have a new leader and are looking to reopen diplomatic relations.”

Kell blinks. “That’s all we know?”

“That’s all anyone who isn’t Maktahn knows. I asked,” Rhy gestures to the paper. “I’m being polite and responding, but it was a futile effort. We very well may be the first to know a damned thing about this person.”

Kell picks up a ring of bread from the tray, tearing it in pieces and drizzling it with honey. “I wasn’t aware the Danes had been… um…?”

“Removed?” Rhy supplies, amber eyes softening as he sags under sleeplessness. “Four months ago, apparently. Neither was I.”


	4. December 1919

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up where we left off, y'all. Last update for a little while, but I'll be back soon!   
> Want more content? Come bother me over on tumblr @orchidscript. I post a whole bunch of other stuff, including moodboards and inspiration photos for this fic, as well as the Shades of Magic series in general.   
> So pop on by, say 'hi', and thank you for sticking with me :) Enjoy!

The brothers passed the rest of breakfast in relative silence. The spoke no more about the guessed-at upheaval in Makt, did not mention how little either of them ate or the swath of correspondence between them. Kell didn’t mention Sonal, as much as he wanted to, but picked up a pen and helped write the last few letters back to their allies. After he finished each one, he turned the page enough for Rhy to add his signature before returning to his own stack of correspondence. 

Left to just the two of them, the monarchy had become a reflection of their whole lives. A strange kind of teamwork, slipped easily into and unacknowledged by either of them. Rhy at the center of the room, Kell the shadow behind keeping him standing. Rhy stubbornly pushing forward, Kell picking up the scattered pieces he missed. Rhy taking on more than he could handle, letting no one else but Kell in enough to help.

An hour and a half passed like this before the call for public audiences interrupted. Rhy was on his feet in seconds, the letters and answers quickly stowed within the locked box he was presented with each morning. Kell followed, close on his heels as they walked to the Rose Hall. Of the five halls within the Soner Rast, only one had remained undamaged and only the Rose Hall had been fully restored. That was the first internal order Rhy had given as soon as the ink on peace accords had dried. He insisted that Arnes and London would return to normal as quickly as possible starting with normal citizen audiences, making the room of paramount importance. The shattered glass tiles making up the ceiling had been replaced, the massive urns replanted with bright red poppies and trailing moonflower vines. 

Rhy came to a halt just outside the open doors into the hall. The sound of hushed voices floated on the still air out into the corridor. Kell stopped just at his brother’s shoulder. Rhy did this every morning, and the Guard now knew better than to react to it. Rhy tucks his head, breathing in slowly through his nose, letting his body straighten up with his filling lungs. Eyes closed, he holds the breath with his head tilted towards the ceiling. A few seconds later, Rhy exhales. His eyes open, his head falls back into place, his shoulders loosen, and his walks forward.

A direct imitation of their father. 

A creative cover for the fear Kell knows lurks underneath.

A disguise to turn him into the young man, the charming crown prince, he used to be.

Kell counts to three then follows, giving Rhy an appropriate head start. The crowd gathered was not there to see him, only the young king with the kind smile and good ear. He could always pick out the new-comers from the way their heads popped up at Rhy’s entrance, the way their eyes followed him into the hall, the way they blinked in confusion as he bypassed the thrones. The new bloom of soft wondering as Rhy seated himself at a wooden table.

As far as Rhy was concerned, the thrones still belonged to his parents and would not be used again until London was whole again. 

_ Until I’ve earned it _ went unspoken, but Kell heard it loud and clear. It was a sentiment that marked his brother’s every decision and would for years more. He hid it behind the veil of recovery, granting grieving and distressed people the dignity of being looked in the eye, showing that the crown cared exactly as much as it claimed to. Rhy did care. He cared a great deal about pulling their city, their country out of the ruin the war had brought with it, but he cared more about the legacy sitting a few feet behind him every morning and evening. The invisible, watchful eyes of his mother and father who’s place he had been brought up to fill but did not believe himself capable.

So he had one of the many dining tables brought up from storage, laid out in the Rose Hall with four chairs. One for the king, one for the  _ aven vares _ , another two for those seeking counsel. Kell usually stood behind his brother’s chair, overseeing the conversations and listening patiently to remind Rhy of points later.

But not this morning. “Kell, sit.”

“Why?” Kell asks quietly.

“Because you standing is going to put me on edge,” Rhy murmurs back tersely. “Sit. Down. Please.”

“Whatever you say,  _ mas hazra _ ,” Kell replies in a deadpan, lowering him into the second chair.

That earns him something like a laugh from Rhy -- a bitter, vaguely irritated huff with a half-smile -- before he motions to Isra for the first person to approach the table. Rhy slides a stack of paper and a pen in front of Kell.

“My--.”

“Don’t explain. I can take notes,” Kell brushes him off.

A young woman sits down in one of the chairs across from them. She looked barely out of her teen years, much like they were, and was dressed in her finest -- a skirt, coat, and hat that had been fashionable before the world exploded, had probably cost a fortune then but was worth pennies now. Kell picks up the pen, chiding himself for the thought. She was coming to his brother for help and was doing her best to look as presentable as possible; he should be applauding her efforts.

Rhy leans forward, forearms resting on the table. He smiles warmly at the young woman, pitches his voice to be comforting and friendly as possible. The way he used to sound all the time, Kell notes without thinking. Now his brother struggled to use it for more than a few hours at a time. He speaks in fluent Arnesian, something their parents never did. 

“Good morning, thank you for coming. How can I be of help to you?”

It was the same greeting for every single person who sat in that chair, but Rhy meant it. The problems put before him were as personal to him as they were for the people living them, and Rhy intended for them to know as much. Stressing  _ I _ instead of  _ the crown _ . Emphasizing the  _ you  _ with as much personal warmth as possible. All so that one person -- for the moment, this young woman -- knew he intended to stand by them.

“Oh… thank you,” She blinked, flustered by the words but quickly recovering herself. “I’m here to, um, to ask about the war prisoners,  _ mas hazra _ . My father is still being held in Vesk, and I…”

Rhy nods to cover the twitch in his jaw, reaching out a hand across the table. “I understand. You’ve come to ask about when they will be coming home?”

“Yes, that.” The woman stares at his hand in awe, eyes moving up to his face. Not finding a trace of false sympathy she delicately places her own on top, hesitating as though expecting to be scolded for the gesture. 

“I won’t lie to you, it will be some time yet,” Rhy answers evenly, fingers his closing around her’s. “I’ve been able to ensure the last of the prisoners will be moved to the border, but Vesk is reticent to lose their leverage. The young princess, Cora, is a friend of mine and will be coming to meet with me in a week’s time.”

“And she will be able to help?”

“I hope so. She has a way of making her brother see sense when others cannot. Our soldiers have spent too long away from home, and I will have them home by spring if not sooner. I assure you, I have not abandoned them.” Rhy smiles encouragingly. “What does your family need? I’ll see to it that you take it with you when you leave today.”

The young woman walked away with money for a month’s worth of money, a voucher for new blankets, and a tax exemption until summer. Rhy promised to extend that if he could not bring her father and the other war prisoners home before April. She was not the only one. Over the next two hours, residents of London approached and asked about everything from city-wide rationing and water supplies, to the planned rebuilding and when the naval block at port would be lifted. All of them walked away with something -- vouchers, money, news, promises already followed through -- and Kell diligently recorded every single one. 

As soon as the hall doors closed, barring them from prying eyes, Rhy slumped forward. He buried his face in his arms and sagged. 

“Rhy?”

“I’m just tired. Stop worrying.”

“You’re always tired.”

“So are you.” Rhy stays buried, breathing deeply and slowly for a few more minutes before sitting upright. The friendly, content mask has fallen off with no sign it was ever there. His expression is drawn tight and sad, the light behind his amber eyes dimming. “Am I doing a big thing badly, Kell?”

“No, you’re doing as well as anyone could,” Kell answers. He caps the pen, leaving it on top of the unused paper for later in the day, and pockets the leafs he had used. “No, I know that wasn’t what you were asking me, but that’s my answer. You’re giving the city what it needs, what’s best for us, and your second guessing yourself is only going to keep you from sleeping.”

Rhy shakes the sadness away, eyes flickering up to Kell as he stands. “You know what keeps me from sleeping.”

“I do.”

“I know it’s the same things that keep you awake.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Kell sighs. “But I don’t spend eight hours a day comparing myself to Father like you do.”

Rhy’s eyes narrow. “I do n-.”

“Yes you do. Every day.” Kell tucks two fingers into his collar, pulling to loosen it but knowing it wouldn’t. He hadn’t worn it long enough to soften the starch and soutache.

“I have a family legacy to uphold. Your only loyalty is to me,” Rhy shoots back.

“I hope you don’t mean that as a slight,” Kell shrugs, watching Rhy stand and bracing for his defensive anger. Even though Rhy was shorter, he had more muscle on his frame than Kell ever did, even now. Kell was faster but it wouldn’t help him if Rhy decided to knock him sideways.

Rhy’s jaw tightens, but his arms stay at his side. “I don’t. You just… You wouldn’t understand the  _ pressure _ I am under. Makt is watching. Vesk is watching. Faro is watching and waiting for aid we can’t give because our own people need it more. We  _ can’t _ be seen as  _ soft _ , Kell.”

Kell raises a hand to keep Rhy from jumping down his throat. “I know. I understand as much as I can.”

“Do you?” Rhy crosses his arms and begins walking in the direction of the private corridor. “Because if you did you would know how much your joking irritates me and you would quit.”

Kell follows without another word. He waits until they’re back in the tea room, alone with the lunch tray. Rhy is still fuming, but far enough away from the porcelain that Kell dares to grab him and pulling him around.

Rhy’s eyes flare and he tries to yank away. “Kell, wh-.”

“What about Sonal?” Kell asks quickly, smoothly cutting his brother’s protests off. Rhy’s fury falter, dropping like a stone to reveal fear. Childlike and found-out in a way Kell had not seen grace his brother’s features in years.

“W-What are,” Rhy coughs and tries to pull his features together but fails. “What are you talking about?”

“Last night, you wrote you couldn’t think about anything other than Sonal,” Kell says. “I know that’s why you didn’t sleep, Rhy. So before we ride out this afternoon, before we go through another round of audiences, before we even  _ think _ about meeting with Makt, I need to know what.”

Rhy shakes his head. “No, I can't. I don't. I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to admit to being scared, fine, but I’m your brother,” Kell insists. “Tell  _ me _ . Before Makt and Vesk smell it on you a mile away.”

Kell loosens his grip and Rhy pulls his arm back, stepping away. He cradles one hand in the other, rubbing a thumb into his palm. Rhy’s last defenses crumbles and, behind closed doors, let all the pain he had been stuffing down show plain as day. His brother looked small, terrified, cracking at the edges and fraying at the seams. Kell could place that feeling, had felt it in himself the night before, knew it had knotted itself together overnight and would unravel again in due time.

He swallows hard, then says only a few words in a quiet, shaking voice. “Th-the day we, we were trapped. In the trench.”

Rhy lowers himself into a chair, breathing stilted and strangled. Kell takes a shallow breath, feeling his skin go cold. His own hands start to shake as he too sits down. Rhy didn’t need to say more. Kell remembered all too well. The damp, cold darkness seeping into their clothes. The air exploding around them. Grave dirt filling their noses, mouths, eyes. The grip of Rhy’s nails in his the back of his hand, pressing bloody half-moons as they lay there, buried, expecting to die. The familiar, devastating sound of gas shells going off and praying it would not find them.

Sonal had buried them alive.


	5. April 1916: Sonal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright you guys, first time in a bit.  
> CW: war violence; discussion of death; tw for anyone with claustrophobia (Seriously no joke). In this chapter and the next, allusions to suicide ideation (very scant but it’s still there and I figured I should include it).
> 
> Okay, that’s it. Take heed. I will be raising the rating on this piece just in case. I’m not sure where this story is heading and I think I should cover my bases. Regardless, if you want to come yell at me, chat, or whatever please do.
> 
> Now, enjoy! :D

No one could hear them.

Not over the screaming shells and screaming voices and blast after blast after blast. 

No one could hear him.

Rhy was starting to wonder if he was making sound at all, if he was even breathing. If he had already died and his soul had not yet freed itself from between his ribs. He thought he could feel his body, feel the weight of upturned soil on his legs and back. Thought he could hear himself coughing wet dirt up from his lungs but still breathing more in.

Kell had been right next to him. Right next to him.

Kell wasn’t next to him now, or maybe he was. There was a hand resting under his where is lay stuck under piles of earth. It was still warm, the fingers moving once in a while. Rhy couldn’t see it -- his eyes were shut tight and he had no plan to open them -- but he held onto it as tightly as he could, digging his nails into the skin. He believed down to his bones that it was his brother, because Kell couldn’t be dead. Rhy wouldn’t let him be. If Kell was dead…

No. 

Rhy wouldn’t entertain the idea of there being nothing left of him.

The blast was enormous and unexpected. Even after a full year at the front lines, Rhy never expected that to change. The sound was familiar, so unending he was nearly deaf to it. The eardrum-bursting, spine-rattling blast of one landing too close for comfort would never be.

The earth had swallowed them whole.

The shell’s explosion had collapsed the far wall of the trench on top of the London 8th infantry, snuffing out the day’s bright blue sky in an instant. In a moment, they were gone. 

Vanished.

Buried.

The young prince had no reason to believe anyone would find them. Find them alive, find them dead, find their bodies at all. 

Was this it then? The end?

Rhy didn’t think about death. Safe at home, he hadn’t ever had a reason to ponder what came afterwards. He was too young to think about what his own death would be like. Despite all that lack of imagination, Rhy hadn’t expected it to be so… well, peaceful.

Somewhere above them -- Rhy didn’t know how deep he was -- bullets flew and bodies fell. 

Underground it was quiet and warm. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, so awful to just… let go?

Let the earth, the world, breathe him in.

The fingers under his stretched, laced their way into Rhy’s and squeezed. Rhy squeezed back.

It had to be Kell. It had to be.

Because Rhy didn’t know what he would do if it wasn’t.

He couldn’t handle the knowledge that his brother could die, die alone, die and leave Rhy nothing to bring home, nothing to recover, nothing to hold on to one last time. So Rhy held onto the hand under his, eyes sewn shut against the shifting earth around him. Soldiers retreating, running over them with no knowledge of the make-shift tomb right under their boots.

Rhy forced himself away from there, the damp, warm darkness where he now believed he would die in. Forced himself back home, years and years ago, all the way back to childhood. When the hand gripping his really was Kell’s and Rhy could have opened his eyes to see his sleeping face mere inches away. Just there, underneath a canopy of soft sheets and blankets on one of their beds. Through nightmares and thunderstorms, bouts of sickness and sadness and playtime trickling unopposed into naptime. They would curl on their sides, knees touching, two hands cupped together until morning or someone came to rouse them.

His eyes stung as tears bubbled up and leaked out down his cheeks, soaking into the dirt. 

He tried to forget, tried to lie still and hold on those scattered memories. Glimpses of Kell’s face, the shy, sometimes grudging smile reserved just for between them. His father smiling and helping them stand on chairs to better see the massive map of Arnes, the one that got it’s very own room it was so large and important. His mother waking them up with a soft voice, soft smile, soft fingers running through their hair. Their arms, warm and strong, around both of them when they were very small. Kell, once he had finally understood how much Rhy liked him, happily tackling him into pillows as they played, red hair wild and smile as wide as it ever was.

Rhy pulled the front of his uniform coat up over his nose and mouth as he cried. The small movements of his shoulders and chest shook more soil down around him. He had too much mud in his mouth. He didn’t want to taste more of it.

 _No_ , he pleaded silently as the earth on top of him became heavier and heavier. _Please, no. Not like this. I don’t want to go like this_.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The last thing Kell had managed to do before his vision went black was grab Rhy’s sleeve.

Now his hand was empty and he didn’t know where he was.

“Come on, can you hear me?” A voice whispered urgently over him. Hands patted at his jaw, becoming more insistent, rougher with every passing second. “Come on, prince, you can’t die on me. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“Check his nose!”

“Shit. Right.” 

Then a hand moves and starts prodding at his nose, the fingers of the other jabbed into his neck. It’s then that Kell’s body decides to come back to him, his lung filling with air and choking on leftover earth in his mouth. A hand grips the front of his jacket and yanks him up to sitting, another smacking him hard on the back.

“There you go, princeling. Cough it up.” The voice comes again, clearer and closer.

Kell’s chest heaved, lungs wracked painfully as the world fell back into focus. Sonal, a clear April day studded with Veskan shells. He blinked and rubbed the remaining earth out of his eyes, opening them to his boots on burnt grass and the sky. Blue spring day sky.

He could see the sky.

Kell took in a deep breath and dropped back, staring in awe at the warm blue and scant clouds. “I’m… I’m alive?”

“You’re not that easy to kill, _aven vares_.”

Kell jumps as Hastra, the other field medic, drops into view over him. He starts coughing all over again. His voice is a rasp when he manages to speak again. “Where’s Rhy?”

“Digging him out right now,” Hasta says with a kind, reassuring smile. “He was making noise when we found him, so we think he’s alive.”

“Let me see him,” Kell orders, pushing himself back up to sitting too easily. He glances around frantically. “Where the hell’s my--.”

Hastra’s hands grab his shoulders, holding him in place. “Still underground. Everyone we could pull out, their packs are still down there. Made you too heavy to get out.”

Kell nods, tries to smile, but he’s too worried about his little brother. “I need, I need… I need to see Rhy, I need to know-.”

He expects Hastra to stop him, pull him off somewhere else, but he doesn’t. The young man jerks his head in the direction of a cluster of other soldiers kneeling at the base of a mountain of dark earth. “Go on then.”

Kell struggles to his feet and runs towards them. He drops to his knees next to the others, who were clawing at the earth with their bare hands. Two of them make brief eye contact, nodding and making room as Kell joins in. Rhy’s head and shoulders are just visible, his head knocked to the side and eyes closed. Every few seconds one of the others would hold a piece of glass under his nose, waiting for it to fog, making sure Rhy was still breathing. It made Kell work faster, dirt coating his palms and getting caught under his nails

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity before they were able to grab at Rhy’s uniform and pull him free. The jostling started to wake him up. His hand reached out grabbing at the air, his heels kicking futilely at the ground.

“N-No, p’me back,” Rhy murmurs, wriggling against their hands, lurching back to the hole in the ground. “I wan’ go back. Lemme go. Lemme, m’go. K-Kell’s still, Kell--.”

“I’m right here,” Kell says. They set Rhy down, propping him up against Kell’s chest, and vacating back to try digging the others free. Kell handily takes over, holding Rhy and keeping him from struggling too badly as he cleans out his nose and mouth, brushes the mud from his face, the dirt from his curls. “I’m right here, little brother. I’ve got you. We’re okay.”

“K-Kell, no, I,” Rhy stumbled over his words. He squirmed, pushing and twisting away until Kell gave up and laid him down. Rhy’s eyes widened as he registered Kell’s face. “Y-You, but… where?”

“Here. Right here. They pulled us out,” Kell says quietly, picking up one of Rhy’s hands in his.

Rhy blinks, breathing audible as he comes down from his panic. He’s disoriented, coming back to himself. Mud streaks down his cheeks, now drying in the sun. His eyes are rimmed in red, sitting right on the edge of bloodshot. He glances down at their hands and lifts them up to he can see, rotating their wrists to stare at the back of Kell’s hand.

“It wasn’t you…” He whispers, heartbroken. “I, I thought it was you.”

Kell opens his mouth to answer. The words don’t come before he hears it. The dead air followed by two pops, one after the other. Rhy hears it too, sucking in a harsh breath and scrabbling at the ground around them. Kell swallows hard.

Their packs were underground. Their gas masks were underground.

“Can you run?” Kell says quickly.

“What?” Rhy stares at him, struck.

“Can you run, we have to run,” Kell repeats, checking around and stands, yanking Rhy to his feet after him.

“But our--.”

“They’re gone. They’re all gone,” Kell shouts as the fighting kicks up again. 

Rhy is frozen in fear as it clicks into place in his head. Kell almost smacks him so they don’t get stuck, trapped with at the mercy of the shadow king. Just as suddenly as the fear appears, it vanishes. Rhy nods stiffly and takes off like a shot, Kell’s hand in his.


	6. April 1916: Sonal (p.2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its back again guys. The illustrious content warning.  
> CW: war violence; graphic depiction of death; discussion of death and suicide ideation.  
> Don't worry, we'll be moving back to the present next chapter. But from here on out, the rating on this pic is going to be at M or higher. It just feels like the right move, erring on the side of caution.  
> Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

Rhy had never run so fast in his life. He had never had a reason to. But now he and Kell ran for the relative safety of the treeline, Rhy holding on to his brother’s hand as securely as he could manage. Their lives depended on it, and Rhy wouldn’t lose him again.

The hand he had been holding underground had gone still and cold underneath his. Rhy had gripped at it, grabbed at it, squeezed and shook and scratched at it, trying every way he could think of to make it move again. 

It hadn’t.

Rhy had felt his heart break, sure beyond a reasonable doubt that he had felt Kell die. Felt the last threads between them fray and shred and snap. And still Rhy had refused to let go.

_ I’ll bring you home. I won’t leave you here. _ Rhy had promised, sobbing miserably.  _ I’ll bring you home, I love you, I love you I love you I- _ .

As he ran, lungs overworking, Rhy realized he had been holding on to a stranger. Not his brother, but still dead. Rhy had been the last one to touch them, to know they were still there, whoever he had believed was Kell. Buried in the earth of Sonal, Rhy had promised a dead Kell he would bring him home; that he would not abandon him now; that he would not surrender him to the dark so easily. 

Now he ran for his life. Ran away from the stranger he had promised those things to.

He stopped dead just inside the treeline, stumbling forward as Kell barrelled into him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kell asked, eyes wide and frantic. He shoves Rhy forward, brow creasing as Rhy doesn’t move. “Rhy,  _ run _ . What the fuck, we  _ need to run! _ ”

Rhy stepped away and turned, staring past Kell towards the trenchline. “We need to go back.”

“What? Have you  _ lost it _ ? No!”

“We have to go back, Kell!” Rhy shouted. “We have to go back! We have to go get them! We can’t just leave them,  _ I can’t leave them _ !”

Kell grabbed Rhy’s shoulders, shaking him as he shouts back. “We can’t go back, Rhy! Not without masks, not  _ now _ ! We have to go, we have to--!”

Rhy shoves Kell backwards, making a break for the broken Arnesian trenchline. Kell spun, faster than Rhy remembered him being, and caught Rhy around the middle. Rhy pulls forward, trying to push Kell off, but his brother hangs on, stubbornly digging his boots into the undergrowth and yanking Rhy inch by inch further into the trees.

“Let go of me! We can’t leave them!”

“Rhy! Stop! We’ll come back but we can’t now!”

“They won’t let us! We have to go get them, we can’t just-!”

“Get  _ who _ ?”

“The person next to me!”

“ _ Who?! _ ”

“Who I thought was you!” Rhy screamed, lunging forward only to hit the ground with Kell on top of him. “They were you! I thought they were you and they died and I--!”

“Can’t leave them, I get it but  _ look _ !” Kell loosens the grip of one hand just enough to grab Rhy by the jaw and force his brother to look back where they had come. 

The Osaron canisters had burst, leaking the sinister black fog over the battlefield. Covering the new crater at the field’s center in a long black veil. It twisted and curled, burning the grass as it slithered slowly in their direction. A low rolling fog, like the one that sat on the River Isle every morning, but far less benign.

Rhy felt his blood run cold in his veins. He watches in abject horror as one of his rescuers tripped and fell, sprawling into the dirt. Watches as she scrambled back to her feet, only to collapse again, the chemical having already flooded her nose and mouth. The shadows over took her as she twisted on the scorched earth, clawing at her exposed throat.

Kell pulled him up, back, and away before Rhy could watch the woman die. His face is serious, eyes hard and set. “We run or we die. I’m not dying again today.”

Rhy nodded, shaking. He follows Kell back deeper into the woods, hopping over fallen trees and stone, praying to anything that could listen that the shadows would dissipate before it caught up to them. He’s still shaking as they come stumbling out of the undergrowth and into the safety of a Faroan camp sitting on the other side. He shakes as he and Kell are installed in an officers tent, as his brother rattles off all the information he can to a fieldmarshal. He shakes after Kell wraps a blanket around his shoulders, shoves a tin cup of something hot into his hands.

He shakes and shakes and shakes.

The shaking turns into wracking, shuddering sobbing as the sun sets and the casualty numbers began to come in. They were guessed at, estimates -- no one could truly account for how many were buried or taken or blown to pieces -- and held no good news. Their company, the London 8th, had begun the day with 87 members and ended it with 44. Or, more accurately, only 50 of them had been able to claw their way through the border trees to their ally’s camp, six expiring from chemical burns shortly after.

Parrish, Gen, a few others the two princes knew and knew well. Members of the king’s guard that had joined up when they had, as a favor to the monarchs and in solidarity with the princes. 

Rhy ducked his head and covered his face when they were given the news, as Kell requested writing materials to send a letter to their parents. He could imagine nothing more embarrassing than for the crown prince to be seen crying like a child openly in front of a Commander of the Faroan Army.

His father wouldn’t have. The Steel Prince would have kept himself under control, calm and collected in the face of whatever danger be it the Pirate Queen or a particularly tense trade negotiation. A few feet away from where he sat, Kell sat hunched over, quickly scribbling out the letter he intended to get to Arnes by week’s end. His red hair fell over his eyes, legs crossed and still as he wrote. Kell’s hands didn’t shake. He didn’t cry or whimper or whine. He certainly hadn’t tried to run back into a death trap. In fact, Kell hadn’t said a single word since receiving the paper and pen.

And here, Rhy was melting under the strain, the pressure, fear turning him inside out.

“You should be crown prince. Not me.”

Kell’s hand stills, eyes drifting up to Rhy’s face. He shakes his head, uncrossing his legs. “No. I shouldn’t be.”

“Yes, you should. I’d give it to you if I could.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You’d take it if I made you,” Rhy answered miserably. He holds up shaking hands for his brother to see. “Arnes doesn’t need a kind who shakes like a leaf and weeps at the drop of a hat. You… You’re fine.”

Kell’s eyes narrow, his lips purse. He sets his paper aside, scoffing and rolling his eyes. Bitter, disbelieving, frustrated. Not the usual, vaguely pleasant sarcasm. He stands, crossing his arms to keep his blanket around his shoulders, and sits down next to Rhy on the cot. For the second time that day, Kell grabbed Rhy’s shoulders and forced him to look him in the eyes.

“Look at me. Do I look  _ fine _ to you, Rhy? Really  _ look _ . Because I couldn’t be  _ less fine _ .” Kell said through gritted teeth. “I am just as out of sorts as you are. To put it  _ mildly _ .”

Rhy turns, making eye contact with Kell for the first time in hours. Dirt still clung to his hairline and neck. A long scratch runs from temple to jaw on the right side of his face, what little blood there was had smeared. Rhy wondered if Kell knew it was there. His eyes are not their usual warm blue edged with the seriousness he’d shown since his ninth birthday. They were hard and icy, cracked through, shaken to their centers and deeper still. His face was pale, tight, drawn and shadowed.

The Black Eyed Prince, weakened but there.

“I thought you were dead. I thought we’d never get you out, that I would have to leave you.” Rhy whispers. The words freed themselves from his lips, much as he would have rathered stuffed them down. “I. I thought I had felt you die. That you were holding my hand and… I was wrong. It hadn’t been you, but. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t leave me behind,” Kell murmurs.

“Right,” Rhy trails off, swallowing back more tears as he recalled the horrible lurch in his stomach when the hand quit moving. “I… When I thought it was you… I had been so scared to die, before. Afraid they wouldn’t find us then. Then I wanted to. When. When I thought you had--.”

“Don’t say--.”

“Don’t tell me what to say,” Rhy snaps, startling Kell. “I’m telling you because it happened. And you have an idea if I wake up screaming tonight.”

Kell sighs heavily. “At least you think you’ll sleep. I know I won’t… I feel like I, like  _ we _ should keep running. That we’re not safe here, not yet.”

“We’re in a war zone. We’re never going to be safe,” Rhy whispers. He takes a deep breath and leans into Kell’s shoulder. “Do you want to? Wait until late and then… make a run for the next camp over?”

“Don’t you want to get the person who was next to you?” Kell whispers back. He sounds fragile, breakable in a way that made Rhy’s skin crawl. Kell was meant to be the stronger of the two of them. Strong and serious, never changing, always the same. Rhy was looking at a Kell with his strength vacated, evaporated. Upset, shaken, devastated, small in a way that Rhy couldn’t quite place, and realized it was because he had never seen it before. It was too much for him to bear and he looked away.

Another sign of weakness. Rhy kicks himself.

“We’ll go tomorrow morning,” Rhy lied smoothly. “Let the gas wear off. Then we’ll find an Arnesian camp with whatever is left of the 8th.”

Kell nodded and laid back on the camp bed. His tall frame would hardly have fit if he was laying the correct way. But now he lay across the foot of the cot, his hips set just off the edge and his legs outstretched into the middle of the small tent. He dropped an arm over his face, hiding everything but his wobbling lower lip.

“Kell?”

“I’ll be okay,” Kell manages, voice hitching and cracking. “I, um, I’m going to be alright, Rhy. I’m just… letting the adrenaline work off.”

Rhy sags even further into himself, knowing he had caused that. “I’m sorry I tried to run back.”

Kell lets out a watery exhale. “If you try that again.  _ Anything _ like that again, I’ll kill you myself,” Kell mumbles. “I’m supposed to keep you safe.  _ I am _ . I can’t if you have a death wish like that. You’ll get us both killed.”

“I am sorry, Kell. Honest.”

“I would have done the same thing. I… Nevermind. Let’s get through the night.”

“Are you going to finish the letter?”

“It’s finished. I was just trying to… soften the blow. So the queen doesn’t panic too badly.”

“You’re,” Rhy clears his throat. “You’re not going to tell her..?”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

They lapsed into uneasy silence until the smell of dinner wafted from the mess tent. Kell and Rhy went only so they could hunker in the corner with what was left of their division. Neither of them was remotely hungry. The Faroan food was actually half-decent, but not even that could convince them to eat more than a few mouthfuls. Rhy was sure the rest of them noticed -- he could feel the other medic, Hastra, watching him closely throughout -- but he didn’t care. He was starting to loathe attention, the eyes one him that he had once craved. 

Eventually, he excused himself to sleep. He wasn’t tired, he just desperately needed to be alone for a few minutes. He laid down on his cot, fully clothed and still filthy, bringing the blanket up over his head. 

He heard Kell come in a long while later, sigh himself and drop down onto the other cot, likely in exactly the same state as Rhy. Lying quiet and cocooned in the scratchy wool, Rhy is grateful his brother doesn’t try to talk to him, lets the silence settle and grow between them. Rhy hears the way the air changes when Kell finally, inexplicably, falls asleep. He counted to twenty a few times before he threw the blanket off. He steals a gas mask out of the foot locker near the door and slips out into the night.

Rhy reached the treeline without anyone stopping him. He moved practically unseen around the campfires and tents, around clusters of men drinking and the black draft horses kept at the edge of the light. He tucked the gas mask more securely under his arm and tried his best to stay quiet as he retraced he and Kell’s steps through the undergrowth.

The gas masked was strapped to his face before he reached the other side. The field was deserted, the dark wall of the brand new crater hazy in the moonlight. Rhy stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his coat, one hand grasping the handle of a small knife. Kell’s knife, which he had taken too. He stepped out, making a beeline for the crater, where he remembered he had been pulled out.

He reaches the body of the woman first, lying face down in the dirt. Her helmet had come off, revealing a thick black braid he had not seen earlier. He crouches down, grabbing the collar and back of her jacket, and drags her to the edge of the trees. Swallowing hard, he turns her over. He pulls her braid up over her shoulder, folding her hands across her stomach, wiping away the crusted saliva on her lips. What little he gets on his hand burns -- the remains of the Osaron chemical -- but Rhy pays it little attention. He stands, wiping it away on his pant leg as he walks back out into the empty field.

He walks the same swath of field over and over, back and forth, all night. Dragging and laying out the bodies of anyone in an Arnesian uniform in a row, positioning them in the same way as the first. He only finds twenty laid out on the burnt grass, a far smaller number than he knew was out there, waiting to be found. Waiting to go home.

Knife in hand, skin itching from exposure to the dried remains of the gas, Rhy rushes back to the broken, buried trenches. He drops to hands and knees where he knew he had been and starts clawing at the settled earth. His skin stings but he keeps going, wondering idly what he looked like to anyone who might have been stupid enough to be out there -- stupid like him. 

There wasn’t. Rhy was the only one.

He prayed Kell stayed asleep until he returned, that his brother wouldn’t berate him for this.

He couldn’t bear to leave them, any of them. Least of all, the person who was slowly coming into view underneath his hands. 

Rhy worked faster, heart racing, sweat dripping down his neck from the mask over his face. When all the dirt is cleared from around the head and neck, Rhy pauses, sitting back on his heels. He could see the young man’s pale tan under the smear of dirt, the way his light eyelashes lay against his cheeks. A pair of spectacles sit crooked, bent with lense shattered, on his nose. Rhy runs fingers through the reddish brown hair, shaking the dirt from the strands, marveling at how calm he looks. Under any other circumstance -- if the two of them had been any other place than here -- he would have been sleeping. 

Rhy goes back to work, freeing the young man’s shoulders and arms from the earth, eventually dragging him free. Rhy drags him all the way back, laying him in line with the others. Rhy wipes his face clean, shakes every bit of earth he can from the soft hair, pulling off the glasses and laying them on his chest. Rhy takes too much time folding the hands in place, cleaning them off and studying each one. Half moons cut into the backs of his hands, the palm scratched from where Rhy had tried to wake him up. Rhy cradles the hand in his, running a finger over each mark and knowing exactly when they were made. Tears sting his eyes as he lays it down over the other. 

Then Rhy does the most reckless, stupid, dangerous thing he had all day. He takes a breath and lifts the mask over his face, bending forward to press a kiss to the young man’s forehead.

“I’m sorry I don't know your name,” He whispers. He pulls the mask back over his face and runs back to the trenchline. 

There were more people to find.


	7. December 1919

Kell lets out a shaking breath. “Right… Sonal…”

He didn’t need to guess at the contents of Rhy’s nightmare. Kell had had them too — the suffocating, full-body bind of believing himself buried alive. He had been knocked unconscious when the tidal wave of dirt and rock crushed down over them, but Kell had seen the aftermath. The crater left behind by the unseen Veskan mine blast. The fresh wet earth piled high, protecting them from gunfire. Had heard Rhy talk in his sleep, mutter and shake through nightmares immediately after, while he was recovering from their next brush with death.

He didn’t have to remember it to know exactly how it felt.

He had night terrors about their run to the woods, one of those horrible cycling things where the trees keep pulling back, Rhy kept falling behind, the shimmering tendrils of the shadow king faster than they had ever been in life. Nights on end where he had been too slow, sucked forward, dragged down, watched helplessly as Rhy — or even Hastra — was tripped. Tried to save them from the shadows only to hold them with numb hands as they convulsed, burned from the inside out, disappearing into smoke in his hands. Bodies crumbling into utter nothingness.

That wasn’t how Hastra had died. He had hung on until 1918, a cheerful, kind presence never worn down by the carnage. Mere weeks before the ceasefire had come down, the young man had a knife jammed in his ribs. Kell hadn’t been quick enough, hadn’t known the blade’s tip had just nicked an artery and the man had no hope. He had been a medic too, refused to carry a weapon.

He had told Kell how he was going to become a priest after, was hoping to be accepted into the Sanctuary. Kell had told him he would put in more than a good word for him.

Kell pushes the man from his thoughts and looks back to Rhy. His brother has gone grey in the face, ashen and quivering. “Are you alright?”

“What do you think?” Rhy mumbles miserably, amber eyes finding Kell’s blue. He shakes his head imperceptibly, casting his eyes out to the winter garden beyond the tea room windows. “Every night this week. Underneath the trench. I couldn’t breathe last night, I thought… It felt real.”

“I know,” Kell whispers, wringing his hands. “I hate how real they are… do you, do you ever. See things, after you wake up?”

Rhy nods. The light in his amber eyes flickers and dims even more. “Nurses, physicians. Like I’m back in the field hospital.”

“Osaron. On the floor, just in the corner of my eye,” Kell breathes, hands clasped as he leans on his knees. He swallows hard, admitting one more thing. “I… I think I feel them, sometimes. Late at night.”

“When you come home drunk?” Rhy says without bitterness, without judgement. Neither of them could judge the other for bad habits they both maintained.

“Yes, always. Sometimes when I can’t sleep.” Kell nods. “When I sit up late, trying to exhaust myself. It’s… It’s like they’re right next to me, waiting to say something.”

“And they can’t?” Rhy exhales, breath shaking. “I see, I see mother and father. In my rooms, in the halls, the garden. Everywhere. I wonder if going mad, thinking ghosts are real and that they’ve come back, but I can’t just… will them away.”

“If you’re going mad, then I must be too.” Kell can’t bring himself to say any more. Their conversations came to natural ends now where before they had been forced to close by sleep, drink, pulled apart by Rhy’s wandering eye at balls. Now their voices died like flowers on the vine, slipping into unshakable quiet. Lost in their own heads and unable to voice what tumbled inside.

“We should eat,” Rhy whispers but doesn’t move. “We’re expected in the city by one.”

Kell stands and picks up the tray, setting it on the low table in front of them. Where they would sit night after night with their parents, Kell coming and going with messages. Only their clothing, the season, the flavor of the tea ever changed. When not entertaining guests, foreign or domestic, the palace fare was far simpler than it had been growing up. Another sign of Rhy tightening down expenses to direct them towards other efforts; multi-dish feasts of warm, spiced things became simple soups, handheld street food to be eaten while walking between meetings, bread and cheese. Anyone else might have complained, but it was only ever Rhy and Kell and neither of them ate much. There was no use in over taxing the limited kitchen staff only for it to go to waste.

Today was seasoned rice, bread, and vegetables in a thinly spiced sauce. The two of them repeated the same motions they had learned as children -- spoon small portions on onto a plate, rice mixed with sauce and picked up with torn pieces of bread held in the right hand.

Neither of them ate much, but Kell ate more than Rhy these days, to the point where Kell wondered honestly how his brother kept going throughout the day. He barely ate breakfast, preferring to overload his sense with coffee balanced out only by a few bites of something. It was a far cry from how he had been delivered home to rule two years before, when he had managed to put on weight satisfying the frontline craving for home. It had taken three months for the sadness to catch up to him, strangling out his appetite and refusing to shake loose. He simplified the palace menu, requested no sweets at afternoon or evening tea, and passed the order for smaller portion sizes off as Kell’s idea when it was no such thing. Rhy ate enough to look relatively unchanged, filling the gaps with wine and spirits. He turned sour, intransigent when Kell mentioned the change.

Grief, depression, anger, now deep denial.

Kell surreptitiously watched his brother’s hands; counted one, two, three, seven mouthfuls and then his palms settled on a cup of tea without drinking any. Kell ate only a little more before nudging Rhy back onto the schedule. The two of them walked to the stables where the palace grooms have already prepared horses for them, the ones they had been given by their parents. Two stock horses — a roan with black socks for Rhy, a dappled grey for Kell. Simple saddling, nothing to distinguish them as royal beyond the Maresh ensignia. Even their uniforms would not mark them as such if they did not wear them in lieu of robes and rings.

The city had changed. Kell thinks it every time he wanders through the streets. The Night Market and warmly lit streets of his youth were altogether faded. The Market’s patronage had dwindled to necessities and small amusements, a sign of improvement truly. When the peace accords had been signed a year prior, the place had been deserted, taken over by the King’s Guard to distribute rations and tokens for necessities. The citizens of London did not spend time lingering in the streets anymore. The threat of a gas attack or a mortar at any moment had done away with that last joy, the last freedom they had.

Kell couldn’t blame them for their lack of faith, their lack of trust in the world beyond their doors. Kell hardly trusted his own rooms anymore.

The few members of the Guard that rode out with them wore helmets. Kell and Rhy did not. They had not since they had returned home, and neither relished having to ever don one again. Even if stones and shrapnel would not clang off of them every second of daylight hours, there was something about a helmet that made Kell’s lip curl. He couldn’t quite place the reaction’s origin and was content to leave that scab unpicked-at.

Their first stop was the garrison on the outskirts of London, near the edge of the Desan quarter. A fort that had stood there since before the Maresh family had risen above the average citizen, since London was less a city and more a loosely connected jumble of homes and streets. It’s most pressing duty in Kell’s lifetime had been overseeing the Essen Tasch games whenever Arnes hosted -- something that had not happened in some time, the games having been put permanently on hold until the nations trusted one another once more.

It had not seen a true war in hundreds of years.

Five years of combat and constant guard had made it look all the more haggard.

Rhy rode quickly into the center courtyard of the garrison, dropping off his saddle in the favorite trick that left their mother worrying over him for hours. Reins still in his hands, Rhy landed gracefully and worked his horse to a halt, greeting the men stationed there with earnest kindness.

Less than there had been, Kell thinks as his boots hit the cobblestones. Everywhere he looked, there were less people than he remembered. Less citizens, less guards, less of the ostra and vestra.

London was less-than.

It was the war’s fault.

He swallows back the bitterness that builds in his chest, climbing onto the back of his tongue. He keeps it in check as they greet the commander of the garrison, as he takes down a list of supplies they will need to last the next few months of winter and a particular louse problem in their rooms. Kell did as he always had, becoming the Black-Eyed Prince form and feature to keep down the anger he felt.

Serious. Cold. Controlled.

Stone-Faced Kell, Rhy had liked to call him. When they were little, when Kell wouldn’t look at someone twice. When their mother would sting him with a slight that left his pride -- what little of it was left by that point -- smarting for days.

Stone Faced Kell. The Black Eyed Prince.

The Aven Vares.

Controlled. Collected. Unreadable.

What Kell would have really liked to do was scream. Screamed and cried and ranted for hours, days. About the missing people who were deeply felt and never talked about. About the men and women he had watched annihilated by fire, by smoke, by mud and rain and illness. About how his arm hurt down to the bone some days from the bullet he had taken to rescue his brother.

For the dead, the dying, the missing, the lost, the forgotten.

So that someone -- anyone -- in London knew.

He had not forgotten. He would never forget. Rhy had not either.

No one showed their cards at court, or in private for that matter. Everyone had always existed in a constant state of diplomatic negotiation. Any emotion save for joy was deemed unreasonable, perhaps annoying. Rhy had been allowed to indulge in such things, but Kell had not been. Kell was not a true child of the crown, did not carry his title in his blood but as a privilege. He knew that much, no matter Rhy’s denials or the formal instatement of his titles following Kell’s return home in 1918.

Kell was not a prince. Emotion was not an advantage.

Even that last had failed in the end, had gone firmly to the grave with their parents. Rhy’s charm, his wit, his good looks could get him anywhere. His ability to care was the key to the city’s recovery. Kell’s ability to absorb and hide the turmoil they carried between them was the key to Rhy’s caring.

Rhy was most effective when leaning on someone else.

The trip to the garrison flowed into a tour of Desan, following the side streets and alleys from these outskirts back in the direction of the Soner Rast. Against the advice of Isra, the King’s Guard, their dead father, Rhy and Kell walked. They did not need the horses, did not relish looking down on the people who relied on them, relied on Rhy. If the war had proven something to them -- and it had proven much -- it was that they were only human.

Only flesh and blood. Mortal and able to be cut down just as quickly anyone else.

Their dress uniforms would only protect them as much as the next person.

So Rhy walked, reins in his hands and Kell on his heels. His royal gold circlet had been stowed in a saddlebag as if he had never worn it in the first place. He did not wait for people to greet him, but walked right up to them, introducing himself and leaving an open invitation to ask the crown for whatever they needed. For dozens of people, perhaps hundreds, Rhy did this.

Kell softened as they walked, glad to see more faces alive that not. A few children dashing between doorways, hiding behind the legs of parents. New bodies to fill the spaces left behind. Children so young that he allowed himself to hope, in a generation or two, Londoners would forget the horrors of loss, the guns of August, the burdens of the left behind.

It took hours to reach the Soner Rast again, exactly as Rhy had intended. By the time their horses were back in the hands of stable grooms, the dignitary from Makt had already arrived and been served tea in the residence’s private library. A woman, they told the king. Tall and cold, with skin so pale they believed it could have been the rumored-dead Czar in disguise. Rhy ignored this, passing unheeded into the hall. Kell, on the other hand, was more cautious and stuffed a sheathed knife into his uniform sleeve.

Sorry Calla, he thought as he hurried to catch up to Rhy. I promise I won’t ruin the lining.

Rhy did not wait for him, walking in a clipped pace and turning immediately into the library. His demeanor brightened in that self-same tired way it did for the Arnesian noble families, for when he dealt with Col Taskon instead of Cora.

“ _Velkominn_ ,” Rhy greeted happily, out of Kell’s sight. “I am so glad that Makt has returned to the negotiating table.”

A light, lilting voice responded. “We are glad as well, yðar hátign. Allow me to introduce myself, formally.”

Kell turned into the doorway, coming face to face with a pale woman with frighteningly yellow eyes, fringed in black. Her hair was a red more vivid than his own, cut short and severe against the soft line of her jaw. She stood, lithe and balanced, as a dancer in her crisp white coat and pants. Striking and jarring, soft around the edges enough to put Kell on edge where Rhy was at ease.

She smiled mildly at him. “Ah, yes. _Hátign þín_ , I am Ojka, knight of Makt. I am here to negotiate on behalf of my king, _einhvern daginn konungur_.”

Kell blinks then says before he can catch himself. “What does that mean?”

Rhy turns and glares, but the woman just smiles.

“The Someday King, _yðar hátign_.”


	8. September 1914: Makt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things before we get started:  
> 1\. Special thanks to @moose-teeth on Tumblr, who was kind enough to answer my horse questions (as I know literally nothing about them beyond that they exist, they are big, and they were used in the Great War). You're a gem!  
> 2\. This chapter is dedicated to muffinworry, pinkcupboardwitch, and it'salwaystheapocalypse for their ideas, enthusiasm, and love of a good Athos & Astrid Dane appearance.  
> 3\. Someone close to me told me that V.E. Schwab is very aware of the fandom, including works by the fandom. If this is true, (a) that's utterly terrifying and (b) Victoria, I hope you're enjoying my mad scheme over here. 
> 
> That all being said: Thank you all for sticking with this through chapter 8, the spice is coming soon, and I super hope you enjoy! And don't forget to pop by and say hi!!

As Astrid Dane stood in her palace war room, she liked what she saw before her.

A full wall taken up by a detailed map depicting empires and armies she would love nothing more than to consume. 

History would show that she and her brother had not started a war, but had wanted one. The Maktahn Empire was not new, but Dane rule -- triumphantly seized, held with an iron hand, with all the makings of a thousand-year dynasty -- was only starting to toddle compared to their more established, but softer neighbors.

The Taskons had held the Veskan throne with their massive broods of children for five hundred years. The Arnesian House of Maresh had won their legacy only 150 years before, their singular heir still only a boy with a tenuous, weak hold on the right to rule. If they had been smarter, Astrid thought, they would have named the redheaded boy heir to the throne. At least he had spent more time training with horseback and sword than romancing pretty court members into his bed. He would have been a more fearsome heir.

Astrid smiled to herself, stepping closer to the hanging map. She traces a pale finger down the border between Vesk and Arnes, down the line of the Siljt, then the Isle. The armored claws she wore on her fingers scratching lightly against the painted fabric. These nations, so high and mighty, had declared war on themselves. For a month, they had been piling men and horses at the border, hoarding supplies and weapons, believing themselves ready beyond ready to weather the conflagration they had sparked.

“And I will walk through their ashes like snow…” She whispered to herself, her smile widening. For now, she was only Astrid Dane, Czar of Makt, the Sun and Moon, Grand Prince of London, Great Khan of the Silver Wood. When she was done, she would be Empress of All Worlds.

She had not started a war, but she would be the only finisher.

“What was that, sister?”

Astrid was startled out of her daydream, hand falling from the map back to her side as she turned. Her brother stood at the far end of the long empty table used for general councils and now military strategy. She sighed, exasperated, covering it with a amiable, loving smile. She walked quickly towards him, her long skirts swishing around her ankles, heeled boots clicking precisely on the bone marble floors.

“Nothing, brother dear. Just thinking about all our new playmates,” Astrid answers cheerfully. She had been in a consistently good mood for weeks now, something that greatly concerned her generals, servants, and the citizens of London alike. They expected a swift, ferocious wrath to come down.

They were right to assume that it would, but wrong to believe it would be upon their heads.

No, Athos and Astrid Dane had done enough in the three years of their iron rule to ensure their citizens knew how they conduct themselves. How they should drop to their knees at the sound of their draft horses’ hooves in the city square. How a single thought out of line would earn them the privilege of being made a masterpiece in the castle dungeons by Athos’ own blade. They had amused her and her brother well for three years, but now Astrid had bigger arenas to play in. She trusted the citizenry to stay in lines, her twin brother to oversee that.

She had a war to win.

Athos smiled back at her, the same vicious cut of teeth and thin lips. “New playmates indeed. How badly do you suppose they underestimate us?”

“Far more than they should.” 

Athos chuckles lightly. “When do we finally disabuse them of that notion? I would so love to use their gallant enlisted men as test subjects.”

Astrid laughs lightly, resting her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Soon enough, I promise you that. Strategy first, then we watch them scatter and fold. Did you review the cavalry as I asked?”

Athos’ excitement sobered. He nodded and straightened. “Of course I did. Took time out of my painting time today to do just that, and you should thank me for it.”

“Should I?” Astrid raised an eyebrow, twirling the end of her elaborate braid. 

She loved her brother, her twin, no question about it, but he was trying at the best of time. He was a mere six minutes younger and continued to resent it, despite them both being well in their 30s. Insolent, temperamental, and expecting far more than he deserved -- qualities that all served him well when dealing with their people, when handling rule-breakers and lighting immediate fear in anyone. But Astrid found him increasingly ungrateful when it came to the liberal titles she allowed him to have. 

She would have to remind him soon enough.

“Yes, you should,” Athos answered in a clipped tone, leaning against the high back of a chair. “Because our stoic general has made some changes you ought to hear.”

“Shall I hear them from you, or from him?”

Athos opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I suppose you should speak to him.”

Astrid smiles pleasantly, laying the points of her metal fingertips against her brother’s cheek. A light warning, one he would hear and heed. “I’ll pay him a visit now then.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Holland Vosijk had spent most of the day bent over a table, the papers he sifted through kept in neat piles around him. His neck and shoulders had long ago started to ache, but he easily ignored the dull throb in his muscles. He had experienced worse, beyond worse. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, pulled a new pile of papers to him while setting the old in its place, and adjusted his shoulder blades against the stiff back of his chair.

Since the Danes came to power, he had assumed a significant amount of responsibilities. With the outbreak of true hostilities, he had collected even more. A month ago, he had been the reluctant high advisor to the Twin Czars, resigned to being the throne’s eyes and ears. Now, he had been declared a Royal Fieldmarshal, General of the Maktahn Armies, as well as his usual duties around the fortress masquerading as a palace. The increase in paper -- there had been no paper before, only a slim ledger and a pen he carried with him -- showed as much. One corner was maps, enlistment numbers, and how many were assigned to what units and stationed where along the borders with Vesk and Arnes. Another corner was logistics: how long it would take to move troops from one station to another, what was necessary to cross the Sijlt without slowing down, how many tents, blankets, barrels of food, and horses were needed, what their enemies’ stores looked like. The last two piles were not related to any of the others. On the left, reports of gossip and dissent floating through the streets of London. One the right, results of Athos’ latest project. 

Athos was no longer content to pick victims out of the street, carve them into shades of their former selves, and discard the leftovers in the palace vegetable gardens. Like his sister -- and partially to spite her -- Athos had plans for this war, his destructive creativity running wild. Every night, he would drag an unwilling Holland into his chambers and divulge the results of his latest experiments in human annihilation. The stream of information became a torrent as-

Holland’s lip curled at the thought.  _ Self-preservation, Vosijk. What you do to stay alive. _

Every morning, he would write down as much as he remembered which was a surprising lot. Each new bit scrawled in his poor handwriting on a scrap of paper, shoved into the leaves of a book he kept on a corner of the table. Athos and Astrid did not have the patience for books, so Holland’s puzzle-solving was kept safe. He knew enough to guess at what Athos had designed, what this latest “masterpiece” was now that his “paintings” could not hold his attention.

A bomb that killed not with fire and gunpowder, but with a poison. 

An infection. 

A plague.

Only battlefield tests would confirm it’s efficacy, how many it could fell in it’s low-rolling fog, but Holland knew it would be devastating. Astrid’s need to bring the world to heed under her boot feeding and spurning on Athos’ insatiable need to maim, to slay utterly.

Holland replaced those papers, adjusted the half-clock pinned to his shoulders, and reached for the stack of street gossip. He was responsible for collecting the Dane’s dissenters and delivering them to their throne room. There never seemed to be a shortage of those who despised the monarchs, Holland himself included absolutely. Holland himself was included in their hatred, a symbol of the Danes’ iron grip on the country, the people. The mechanism by which they could live their entire lives with impunity.

Holland didn’t blame them. He knew the truth when he heard it.

He had been one of Athos’ paintings too, strung up by wrists and ankles, dripping dark blood onto the white floors. He remembered the way his voice had extinguished itself under hours, days, weeks of screaming itself hoarse; the way his skin had opened under the cold silver blade, yielding far too easily to gape and bleed until the Defender of the Gods was satisfied. 

Holland hated bringing him new canvases.

The door bangs opens, visitor unannounced, as Holland begins a particularly long report -- the growing number of White Revolutionaries in London. Holland exhales and straightens his back, tilting his chin up to look Astrid Dane in her cold, faintly blue eyes.

“Holland,” She begins in her usual tone. Half-authoritarian, half-gentle, and all the more unnerving for it. 

He pushes himself to standing, giving the woman a shallow bow. He gave Athos, who stood just inside the doorway, a meaningful nod. “Your majesties. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Astrid smiles thinly, lowering herself onto one of the stools set at the table. “No niceties for the moment, Holland, we’re talking seriously today. Athos tells me you’ve changed my cavalry strategy.

“Yes, I have,” He says evenly, calmly. She gestures for him to sit as well and he does, eyeing where Athos stands. The younger twin doesn’t move a muscle. 

“Is it to my advantage,  _ herr kommandant _ ?” Astrid adjusts her shoulders, drumming the fingers of one of her metal-clawed hands on the back of the other. She is otherwise completely still. Salient, ready to pounce. A posture Holland knew all too well.

“Without a doubt,” Holland answers, matching her impatience with unbending apathy. Before she can interject, he is already explaining himself. “I’ve retracted the cavalry forces to a display regiment, something to strike fear but not use in battle. It serves us well in two ways, Astrid.”

“Which would be?”

Holland reaches for the logistics pile, quickly shuffling and extracting a missive from the Veskan border. He shoves it into Astrid’s hands. “Generals already at the eastern front are reporting more and more machines, inventions that will slice through a cavalry line as a knife through cloth. Horses don’t stand a chance.”

Astrid hums as she skims. “Even those dainty Arnesian breeds?”

“Not even them.”

She exhales heavily through her nose, dropping the page to the floor without a second thought. “So our cavalry is ornamental. What are you filling it with?”

“Three things.” Holland’s forest green eyes flicker up to Athos, and he hopes the king understands what a favor he is about to do for him. “First, more men to the infantry to dig in at the eastern trenchline when the time comes. Second, I plan on sending a spy into Vesk to collect information on their weapons, or perhaps steal something we can use to replicate them. Third, deploying a weapon that requires only decent aim and can, potentially take out an entire front line.”

Astrid’s annoyance softens at this, her pale features becoming increasingly interested. “We have such a thing?”

“We will imminently.”

“What is it exactly?”

Holland lets himself soften, a faint smile gracing his lips. “The inventor calls it Osaron. Using it would allow us to preserve our men, and I have a lot of faith in it’s… horrible effectiveness.”

Astrid grins brilliantly, her fingers going still. “Perfect. I expect to see a demonstration when we review the troops at the Sijlt.”

“I’ll arrange it.”


	9. December 1919: Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back with chapter 9! A little Rhy, a little Kell, a dash of Ojka, and a whole lot of set up. 
> 
> And for those of you anxious to see it, this is in fact the lead in to the "spice chapters" (as they have been called on Tumblr). Which means, unfortunately, the rating is about to go up again. Apologies. But I will make specific notes at the tops of "spice chapters" for those of you just looking to breeze through with no romancing in your fic. Don't worry, y'all, I've got you.
> 
> Without further ado, December 1919 (again):

Rhy smiles through his confusion and gestures for them to sit, Kell and this Ojka in chairs across from him. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, but I don’t know the name well enough. You said the… the Someday King?”

Rhy waits for his brother and guest to take their seats, hoping his hesitation comes off as simple hospitality. It was his father’s desk, his father’s chair, he would be sitting in and at. True, it had been his grandfather’s and great-grandmother’s before his, but Rhy disliked sitting here and knowing it was only because his father was dead. He sits gingerly, just at the edge of the cushion with an impossibly straight back.

_ Not yours, not yours, never meant to be yours… _

The thoughts in his head had been vicious and impossible all day, growing worse as exhaustion settled like a heavy blanket over his shoulders. Rhy shouldn’t have expected anything less despite the late hour, but he had hoped they would leave him in peace for a moment. If their guest had noticed his edginess, she had more than enough tact to not mention it. There was a subtle glint in Kell’s eyes that said he had seen, that he knew. 

He hoped relentlessly that the lurking, evil thoughts would leave him altogether. Hoped that maybe, one day, he would cease to be his brother’s most significant burden. 

Ojka practically lounges in her chair. “It is an affectionate name. For him.”

“It comes from a fairytale, correct?” Kell says, clearing his throat. Something about his brother reads as vaguely uncomfortable, a little stilted and stiff. 

“It does, very good,” Ojka replies cheerfully, flashing an approving smile at the man while Rhy looks on, astonished. “It is very popular in our country, and the people gifted it to him out of respect when the revolution ended. Holland Vosijk is the Someday King and I am his white knight.”

Kell goes completely still, shoulders held rigid against the high back of his chair. His face had turned, impossibly, even paler and a thin vacant glaze had come over his eyes. A man frozen in a time and place that was not the present.

Rhy’s brow furrows. “Revolution? Is that how the Dane’s rule… ended?”

“Yes, it is. Were you not aware,  _ yðar hátign _ ?” Ojka’s odd yellow gaze flickers to Rhy, unreadable but curious. Fear stabs between his ribs, worry that he had just revealed their weak hand pulsing in his neck. He knows none of this shows on his face, knows he is too good at embracing a lie and selling it.

“Not  _ that _ aware, it would seem,” Rhy answers carefully. “We had been informed that the Danes had been removed from power, but not that it was at the hands of the Maktahn people. My advisors, it would seem, missed that crucial piece of information.”

_ They know, they all know... She can read it on you just like Kell can, the lie, that Arnes has pulled too far into its borders and knows nothing now… We’re weak now, weak since you took the throne, weak just like yo--. _

“I would not expect them to know it,” Ojka says simply. She folds her hands, slim and pale, on her leg. “We kept that information close to our chest until we were well enough to reach back out. So, now. I believe you are the first of the others to know.”

“Oh,” Rhy nods slowly, quickly piecing information together in his head. There wasn’t much but it was all necessary. He offers the white knight another warm smile. “Then I’ll take your appearance as a sign of your country doing well.”

“Better than we were under the Danes.” Ojka pushes herself further upright, resting her forearms precisely on the arms of her chair. Everything about her was sharp and vivid, a dangerous quickness in her eyes. Rhy imagined she would be a force on horseback, someone it would not be easy to run from; wondered if she too was a veteran of the long war, how deadly a role she played in the demise of Athos and Astrid Dane, how ably she could discard him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rhy says evenly. “Now, if you don’t mind my asking, why did Makt agree to renewed peace talks? Faro was apprehensive at best, Vesk was nearly hostile at the invitation, but your king agreed without question.”

“You are curious as to why, Rhy Maresh?” Ojka asks lightly, drumming her fingers against her white pant leg. 

Only then did Rhy hear the hesitation in her voice, the uncertainty of her. The way she danced around words and meaning, a dexterity that spoke more to her own set of apprehensions, the newness of high royal on her tongue. Rhy thought briefly about switching into Maktahn for the sake of her comfort, but decided against it. She might reveal more through her simple, exact sentences than she would if all the euphemism and metaphor of her native tongue were at her disposal.

“I am, Ojka. Your new king’s line of thought intrigues me. And Arnes would be lucky to have an ally as formidable as Makt.”

The woman’s jaw tightens and she takes a few deep breaths. Thinking, intently, about what her next words would be. Rhy relaxed his posture, leaning forward onto his father’s desk, becoming more of the man he was in front of his own citizens. Patient, serious, kind but not fooled -- the man his father would have been proud of, had he lived long enough to see Rhy become him. 

The library had gone gently silent around the trio, hushed and delicate. Kell was still lost somewhere in his mind, effectively useless until Rhy called his attention back. Rhy had no need to, not yet. Not while he finally felt he had an upper hand in this conversation. Not while Ojka, the proclaimed white knight of Makt, fidgeted and her confidence drained.

“Your highness...Makt is,” Ojka struggles, the dismay at her own stumbling evident on her face. “My king does not pretend that his rule has solved Makt’s every problem. He, he not only wants to renegotiate the agreements that were in favor of the Danes, but…” Her voice cuts off completely.

Rhy sighs and nods. “Please, Ojka, take your time. We are in no rush here.”

She nods. Her expression is tight and unsure for a moment before it fades into stony indifference. A mask, one Rhy knows too well. He knows exactly which muscles tense and where, the sensation of his skin going dry and unmoving, the tightness of top and bottom teeth as they push together against words and emotion. 

_ Soft… Sympathizing with an adversary… Your father wouldn’t dare. You are soft, and Arnes will go soft, vulnerable in turn _ .

Rhy stands abruptly, walking to the door and requesting a tea tray for the three of them. It shatters the strange, suffocating silence pressing down from the ceiling. It scatters the vile, intrusive thoughts in his own brain. When he returns to his seat, Kell’s attention is back in the present and Ojka looks ready to talk.

“ _ Yðar hát-- _ . Apologies. Your highness.”

“No apologies,” Rhy waves the woman’s concerns away. “You are a guest and a friend here.”

The woman looks shocked, but seems to accept the gesture easily enough. “You are very kind, considering I am a stranger in your court. Your highness, I… Makt is. Dying. My king is hoping to reopen the talks so we can establish trade, rebuild our stores and  _ impression _ on our neighbors. We will fare well through the spring, but. The Danes, they set the country up to collapse if they were ever removed.”

Kell and Rhy can only stare, struck by her candor and the admission itself.

The tea tray is set on the desk between them as the silence increases. Rhy waits until cups are poured and distributed, until the man who brought it bows and backs away, until the library doors close and then a few seconds more. He reaches for the sugar, adding a scant teaspoon to his cup. He then pulls a pen and paper from one of the drawers.

“I hope,” Ojka starts, porcelain cup and saucer rattling in her hands. “I hope we have not placed our trust in the wrong man.”

Rhy dips the pen, noting how closely Ojka watches his hands. He pauses, nib poised over the paper, to smile warmly, genuinely at her. “You have not, I can promise you that much. Thank you, for your honesty. Admitting to dire straits was not easy, I’m sure. So, let’s talk strategy, Ojka. How can our countries work best together?”

_ Your father would never have agreed to this. He would be so disappointed. _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kell drifted from then onward, wrapped in a fog of warm disbelief. Rhy noticed, but likely assumed he was struggling under some memory or illusion, leaving well enough alone. If Ojka, Makt’s white knight, had noticed too she was being kind enough to not mention it. She seemed pleased enough with his one and only comment during the meeting.

_ The Someday King. _

He had known the name the moment he heard it and could place it immediately in his memories. A small pinprick of light, scattered through four years of memories, the story he had heard twice and then never again. 

It could have been a coincidence. He knew it was widely told across Makt as a children’s bedtime story, an urban legend passing from generations down the years. The person who had told him the story the first time had told him that much, had made sure Kell knew where the tale came from before they parted. It was the one thing about Makt he knew that didn’t have to do with politics or diplomacy or very formal language.

It could have been a coincidence. Anyone could have taken up the mantle of the Someday King. Names came and went, always meant more than the person wearing them could fulfill. The Danes had been the Twin Czars, Astrid having stylized herself as Empress of All Worlds during the war. The man who ruled before, who they had swiftly dispatched in their power grab, had been known as the Winter King. The man now calling himself the Someday King could have been anyone, should have been anyone.

Kell’s hands shook, his heart thudded. He nearly spilled his wine at dinner, apologizing stiffly to their guest. Rhy’s facade became increasingly concerned until Kell finally excused himself from the table. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t trust himself to continue to sit across from the Maktahn woman and not ask incessant questions. Because it could have been anyone. Anyone at all. Ojka had confirmed it to be the man Kell convinced himself had to be dead, a figment of the past or a figment of his imagination point blank.

_ Holland Vosijk.  _

Kell knew the name. Knew it very well for two brief encounters with the man.

Kell walked quickly back to his rooms, his guards exchanging a quick glance as he flung the dark wooden doors open and slammed them shut behind. He moved immediately to his wardrobe, dropping to his knees and pulling open a drawer he had opened once in two years. A wooden box sat inside, more a crate than a real box, filled with scraps he collected over his four years in service. 

A folded scrap of felt where he had pinned and abandoned his awards, even the ones Rhy had given him. A hastily stitched-together notebook filled with names and ages of soldiers he knew personally who had died, a battlefield injury count, a tally of days spent in a field hospital done in his shaking left hand. A folded and torn photograph of their parents, kept in his breast pocket every day. The knife he had pulled from his boot on too many occasions. Dirt-smeared, water-spotted envelopes containing letter after letter sent by his mother, sent by Rhy during his recovery. One sent by his father, having the misfortune to arrive a week after his untimely death.

Under all that was a small bundle, held together by a linen handkerchief. Kell plucked it out and dropped it onto the floor, unceremoniously pushing the crate away. It took a few tries to undo the knot with trembling fingers, but he somehow managed and the fabric fell away like opening flower petals in spring. In the center lay only a few things, but Kell had guarded them carefully for years. The peeled-off label of a bottle of whiskey, a silver medal of the Maktahn army, and an empty cigarette carton with  _ Holland Vosijk, major?  _ scrawled on the back.

Kell cradled the thing in his hands, his body a tumbling mixture of relief and terror and happiness. He closed his eyes and laughed lightly to himself. He knew it; he knew  _ him _ .

“You lived,” he whispers, dumbfounded, as though he was witnessing a miracle. “I can’t believe you lived…”


	10. October 1916: Vesk's Southern Border

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to "mid-war foreplay" starring Holland Vosijk and Kell Maresh, who don't know each other's names yet.  
> Next chapter, the rating goes up to a full "Explicit" just to be safe. The whole fic won't stay that way and I will mark spicy chapters accordingly so anyone not feeling it can just skip and get the same enjoyment out of the plot.
> 
> Anyway: Kell and Holland getting to know each other, part 1/3. Enjoy!

Kell Maresh had been looking for the darkest, loneliest, dingiest, solitary place he could find that side of the northern Arnesian border. Sitting in the most shadowed corner, a glass of awful whiskey in hand, he believed he had come to the right place. 

Low ceilings and scuffed wood floors made up the Stone’s Throw, where Kell had been spending the last two days in miserable silence. The air was choked with cigarette smoke, Kell doing his best to add to the cloud as much as possible. Voices sounded around him, dim but confused, but nothing more than the hunched over shape of other solitary patrons could be made out. The perfect liminal space for nursing a hangover and what was left of his shredded pride.

Kell was alone for the first time in a year and a half, on leave for a week more now that his broken shoulder was healed and Rhy had been safely delivered home to London. He was on his second glass of the vile booze, missing his brother viciously and trying to drown out the thoughts calling him an utter failure. Wishing deeply with a burning throat that none of that had ever happened; that Rhy was still here, that they weren’t now wearing mirror-image scars; that they had never enlisted and this bloody damned war had never started. They would -.

No.  _ Kell _ would be home, would be safe. As would the hundreds of thousands of dead already accumulated over two years of violence.

Kell wouldn’t be sitting in a dingy pub in a bombed-out Veskan border town wishing for an end because it never would have begun. He wouldn’t be sitting here, smarting and angry, clutching his glass with white knuckles. He wouldn’t be so wrapped up in his bitter thoughts, missing the dark-haired man move through the tables and chairs to land at the one across from him.

“ _ Ös-vo rijke?” _

Kell jerks upright, startled at the voice. The deep resonant tone molding around the crisp, clean Maktahn words. Kell blinked, surprised and perhaps a little stuck under the evergreen dark of the man’s eyes. A little stunned by the way he seemed so out of place and so at home in that place. A little trapped by the notion that someone --  _ anyone _ who wasn’t Rhy -- might want to talk to him. Just him.

_ Ös-vo rijke? _

_ Are you lost? Are you alone? _

Kell swallows and nods to the chair, summoning his limited and very formal Maktahn to answer. “ _ Nijk shöst _ . Would you join me?”

The man nods, settling in and setting his glass down on the scratched wooden table. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs high in the thigh. Some of his dark hair slid over those green eyes, but Kell could still feel them sliding across his skin as sure as he felt morning sunlight in the trenches. 

Kell quickly downs the last of his second glass, earning an intrigued smile from the man.

Pale skin, neatly cut hair, pressed but dusty grey uniform with the insignia of the Third London over the breast. Maktahn, through and through. Kell guessed he was high ranking too, denying the way it made his blood stir.

The man gestures to Kell’s glass. “Would you like another?”

“I can buy my own,” Kell said, tongue more than a little loose. Too loose to form the Maktahn syllables properly, too loose to protest properly.

The man shakes his head, bending to the side and lifting a bottle from the floor next to him. He sets it between them, the heavy glass thudding on the wood. “Pour what you like.”

Kell knows he should be more cautious. He shouldn’t accept drinks from an enemy stranger, poured from a mysterious bottle. He and Rhy weren’t well known beyond Arnes, weren’t even entirely recognizable in person outside of London. He knew someone out there might love the leverage of an Arnesian prince dead, held hostage. But Kell found himself beyond caring, chasing a buzz, a high, a relief he might never find.

Besides, he wasn’t  _ actually _ a prince. 

He could only be considered valuable as Rhy’s protector and Rhy was home.

Kell shook off the thought and reached for the green glass bottle, pouring himself an uneven three fingers. He sniffs the glass then swallows a mouthful, sighing at the smooth burn. “ _ Tav _ .”

The man raises his own glass to his lips and drinks. “ _ On vis och _ .”

“So. Why are you here?” Kell asks miserably, swirling the liquor in his glass. He was pushing his luck switching into the markedly aristocratic high royal, perhaps giving away far too much of himself. But Kell wanted to talk and knew he couldn’t do it in Maktahn, which was limited to formal and diplomatic jargon used in the letters passed between the crowns. Rhy had a better grasp on languages than he did, a fact that made Kell miss his brother more. 

He didn’t know this man but Kell was glad to have the company for his misery. He hoped his increasingly morose nature wouldn’t drive the man -- and his green eyes -- away. 

“Obligation to my crown,” he answers in a low, melodic tone, slipping easily into the wealthier dialect used by the world’s elite. “Biding my time… And you?”

Kell takes another long drink, patting his pockets in search of his cigarettes. He pulls the carton from his breast pocket and lights up. “My brother asked me to enlist with him. Beyond that? Wasting my time.”

“Where is your brother?”

“Home.”

“Dead?”

“Alive. Shot.”

“You as well?” The green eyes land on Kell’s arm as he takes another drink, studying the way it moves.

Kell smirks. “How did you guess?”

The man shrugs, topping off his glass. “Your shoulder. It looks stiff. I merely guessed. So you are drinking the pain away here?”

“Pain, among other things,” Kell sighs. “You’re on leave too.”

“Of course. Why else would anyone be here?”

“You could be anywhere else?”

“Where exactly?”

“I don’t know…” Kell mused between drags and sips. He offers a cigarette to the older man but is refused. “Home, the back lines, a cafe in another country, a brothel, I don’t know.”

The man laughs politely, a low-rolling rumble that stopped Kell’s breath in his lungs, licked up his spine and lighting his nerves all the way up. “The, eh… night time tastes of this country do not suit my own. I prefer to seek out my own _ companions _ , as it were.”

Kell blamed that hot flush in his face on the alcohol hitting his brain. “That must take a long time.”

“Yes but I keep all of my coin in the end.” The man’s eyes glittered in the smoky dark and Kell felt himself shiver. He prayed the man didn’t notice. 

Kell knew he was getting drunk that evening. Well and truly, regrettably, painfully drunk. He knew it by the way his thoughts muddled and shifts, the way his vision glazed over and couldn’t move from the face of the man across from him. In his neat grey uniform, littered with neatly placed medals, rank bars, and insignias. His neatly trimmed dark hair, definitely clean, threads of silver shining here and there when the low light caught them. The subtle lines of age, experience around his eyes, the way their green centers burned into Kell’s own...

His mouth watered, the booze and more warming his blood, lowering whatever inhibitions he had left all the way to the ground. He took another long drink and, feeling brave, drew the toe of his leather boot up the man’s ankle. 

Just to see the way his eyes flashed and glittered. 

Just for Kell to feel brave again.

“Yes?”

“Do you… do you want to have  _ me? _ For the night?” Kell’s whole body froze as the words left his mouth. His heart pounds hard against his ribs, working its way up into his throat as his face grows warmer with embarrassment. He works up the nerve to apologize and take it all back when the older man leans forward.

“You have a room?” He asks, voice dropping into an even lower register. Heat curls in Kell’s stomach, twisting into a knot of anticipation. He grips the glass harder and nods. “Then would you lead the way, blue eyes?”


	11. October 1916: Vesk's Southern Border (p.2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spice Part 2/3 -- The Real Sex Scene.
> 
> CW: safe, relatively sane, and consensual sex. Feel free to pass right on by if that doesn't sound like a good time to you -- no hard feelings, honest. You do you :)
> 
> Dedicated to my partner, who is not allowed to read it. Love you, honey ;)

Kell’s breath was embarrassingly audible in the small room of the inn, but there wasn’t any way to keep it inside. The room was empty, save for just them and the creaking small bed not meant for two. His uniform’s collar chafed at the back of his neck, the wool scratchy and growing too hot, but Kell wouldn’t dare move to take it off before the man between his legs did.

This stranger in an enemy’s garb.

A stranger with a warm, deep laugh and a faintly lilting voice, charming and smooth. A stranger whose breath was unbearably hot at his neck as his teeth grazed his jaw and sucked at his earlobe. Whose hands trailed over his sides and hips and legs. Who was managing to pull noises out of Kell’s throat he was sure he had never made before.

Kell had thought he was well versed, though not as prolific as Rhy. But he was beginning to question that belief, beginning to question the caliber of his previous engagements — the men and women both.

The man’s deft fingers undid the top three buttons of his uniform coat, mouth sliding from the hollow of his throat to nose at the fresh pink scar. His tongue washed over the mark, still sensitive and smarting, eliciting a low whine from Kell’s throat.

He can feel the vibration of the man’s laughter through his own ribs. “Are you enjoying yourself, blue eyes?”

“Y-Yes, very much,” Kell answers, fingers threading through the man’s black hair. Soft, a little dirty from days on the line, a little sweat from the hat he had been wearing until he had dropped into the chair opposite Kell.

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Immensely."

As Kell reached for the man’s buttons, the man reached for Kell’s trouser front. His tongue ran over collarbone, scar, and shoulder. Teeth bit softly into the tender skin of his neck, warm palm a still pressure between his legs. Kell wriggled against the sheets, back arching, trapped between mouth and fingers. He jerked his hips up into the man’s hand, gasping at the firm press that still wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

“Get. On. With. It.” He orders through gritted teeth.

“Are we impatient already, blue eyes?” The man says, more a rumble than a voice.

“Yes. Very,” Kell gasps again, relief flooding his veins as the hand starts moving in slow circles over his cock. “I guess I… should have asked for your name?”

The man laughs, grazing teeth over one of the redhead’s exposed nipples. He laughs harder at Kell’s groan. “Names don’t matter here. Only your desperation.”

Kell laughed along, the sound dissolving into an embarrassingly loud moan as those fingers – deft and light and knowing – finally slip underneath his belt. His laughter hitched as they wrapped around his cock. The major squeezes, rolling his wrist and grinning at Kell’s new noises. The man straddles his legs, bending forward to attack the younger man’s mouth. Kell melts into his mouth, opening his lips to slide tongue against teeth, wriggling more than he would ever admit to. He buries his hands in dark hair, keeping their mouths pressed together, hips jerking up against the restraint of the major’s weight on him.

The man tilts further forward, his weight disappearing, and pushes his other hand in to join the first. This one wraps and squeezes too but faster than the first, moving to slip under Kell’s hips and behind his back. While the first hand is still struggling with the confines of waistband and crotch seam, the other’s fingers rub and press over Kell’s opening. 

Kell’s hips jump and back arches, their mouths separating. “Please, yes, that.”

The man grins wickedly down at him. “Turn over.”

“What?”

“Are you not listening? What are you, a captain?” Kell feels the man’s grip on his thighs tighten. “You should be better at listening with a rank like that.”

Kell scoffs. “I can’t hear you over the sound of my breathing.”

“I said, turn over.” The man’s forest green eyes glitter with mischief, looking up through long dark lashes. “I want you on hands and knees, captain.”

Kell swallows tightly, a fresh blush over taking his features.  _ On his hands… and knees… under his hands and… and…  _ “D-Do you. Do you want me to, to undress?”

The man shakes his head, crawling back up the mattress to loom over Kell. He presses a tender, insistent kiss to his lips. Kell feels himself melting all over again, the whiskey spiking his blood now overtaken by the sheer weight of want in his nerves. It settles into the very real, very tight, very uncomfortable weight between his legs and the man undoes his trousers completely and begins to slide the fabric down over his hips and legs.

The man licks at the shell of his ear. “Not at all. I would not make you strip all your finery, captain. Just the coat though. That might get in the way.”

Kell breathes out, knowing he likely looks like a blushing, stunned virgin. He watches the man undress himself, undoing the gold buttons of his grey uniform, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor, pulling his shirt over his head, hand running over his chest to his tenting trouser front. Kell rushes to pull his off, fingers fumbling with buttons and belt. All the while, he feels trapped and overheated under the other man’s gaze, mouth going bone dry watching him touch himself over his trousers. 

Kell, stumbling and tingling with excitement, eeks out a few more words. “And what should I call you? If I can’t have your name?”

“You can call me…” The man thinks, his eyes lighting up, hand working harder at his front. “Major. Call me that.”

“Yes, major, s-sir,” Kell stutters. He helps push his trousers down to his ankles. Sitting up and turning over was awkward, even more so for being watched by those sparkling green eyes. Older, rougher, someone who knew exactly how he wanted Kell from the moment he had said hello. The thought sends shivers through his frame.

The major was immediately behind him, adjusting shoulders and hips and legs to his liking. Kell can’t see his face, but he can feel his breathing as he hunches over him. A pale hand covers one of his own, lips press between his shoulder blades, a finger rubs lazily over him until Kell is squirming enough and finally pushes in.

Kell keens, arms shaking as he’s opened up. A strong hand wrapped around his hip, holding him in place as the first finger then a second works, stretching him open. The man seems to know just what Kell needs without him having to say it. He hooks his fingers, brushing them against something that makes Kell’s vision blur.

“W-What was tha-?” Kell gasps, his arms failing him. He drops to his elbows, pressing his forehead deep into the pillow.

The man does it again, chuckling lightly as Kell moans into the fabric and down. “You’ve never felt that before?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I should do it again.” The man says, repeating the brush a third time before stretching his two fingers apart. He leans over Kell again, licking and nipping at his ear. “Then I will teach you how to do it on me.”

“Oh for—!” Kell’s voice is cut off by a third finger stuffed inside him. His vision blurs, thighs quivering, his cock an annoying weight between his legs. He stuffs his face into the pillow to keep his voice down.

“Hmm if you make those sounds just like this, just my fingers… you will be breath-taking around me.” The man rumbles. “Correct, captain?”

“Y-yes… yes sir,” Kell whines. Sweat blooms across his back and neck, through his hair and over his chest. The fingers twist again and Kell chokes on his own breath. “ _ Sanct _ that’s nice.”

The man stops cold. “Arnersian?”

“You knew that.”

“No, I did not. I imagined you were Veskan perhaps, but Arnesian…” The man murmurs, the flirtatiousness returning to his tone. “Well that changes things.”

Kell swallows hard, suddenly worried. “Changes things how, major?”

The fingers pull out of him and Kell feels frustration spike through him. He feels the man fumbling with himself, nosing and nipping at Kell’s ear and red hair all the while. Kell sighs contentedly as the blunt tip of the man’s cock rubs over him again teasingly, tauntingly, dipping just barely in before moving away again.

“It changes,  _ kapitan vis Arnes _ ,” The man whispers, pressing and holding his cock to Kell now. “It changes how much I want to hear you scream."

Kell mumbles something about him 'getting on with it’, pushing himself back up onto his palms. HIs arms still shake, but he wants to be upright for this. The man holds him still with one hand, guides himself inside with another, rotating himself in small circles to open Kell up further. Kell bites his lip, holding himself still, no matter how his brain screams at him to force his hips back. Get the man as deep in him as he needs him as quickly as possible.

Kell waits until the man is buried to the hilt in him, then pushes himself upright. The dark-haired man groans, arms wrapping tightly around Kell’s middle, one snaking up to rub idly at the knotted scar over his collarbone. Kell tilts his head back onto a shoulder, eyes closed to the ceiling. He does his best to relax more, letting the man’s cock slide in deeper. Deep and full and the best thing Kell has in him in a long time. 

“Where were you during my last leave?” The man rasps in his ear. He jerks his hips up into Kell.

“Was jus’ thinkin’ the same thing,” Kell pants, squeezing around the cock inside him. He grins at the shudder under him, the hitch in breath, the tightening stomach muscles at his back.

“Would you like to know what I am thinking,  _ kapitan _ ?”

“What are you thinking, sir?”

“I am thinking I would like you better like this.” The man adjusts him forward. Not all the way back onto his hands and knees, but enough that he can thrust into Kell nicely as the redhead holds the headboard. Just enough leverage, just enough friction, just enough left wanting. 

He starts slow, just enough to send sparks up along Kell’s spine. Tingling and bright, lighting up his every single nerve. Kell let’s him move his hips how he liked — up and down, up and down, slamming Kell onto his cock — until its fast enough that Kell’s mouth moves of its own accord. Words fall off his tongue unbidden, unfiltered.

His eyes flicker shut, his mouth hanging open as he pants and rides the major underneath him. Dark and handsome and undeniably Maktahn. Not even Rhy could say he had fucked one of the enemy. Kell’s lips twist into a funny, goofy, open-mouthed grin knowing how this one thing would infuriate so many people but made him unbearably happy.

So very very happy.

He drops further forward, one hand holding him up against the mattress. His free hand grasps at his cock, hard and leaking and completely untouched. It isn’t enough friction, enough warmth, and he pulls it away, yanking one of the colonel’s hands away from his chest. He gets the idea, wrapping his fingers around Kell’s cock, squeezing tighter as Kell’s hand covers his and guides. Pumping hard and fast, to the point of tears.

“ _ Já, bara svona. Með hendinni ... ó guðir.. _ ”

_ Sanct _ ,  _ sanct _ ,” Kell keens, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. “ _ Mas aven. Ah! _ ”

The world blurs around him as the tears break the surface, spilling over his lashes and pooling under his eyes. Wet smears over their hands as his cock, painfully hard, leaks. Kell jerks and bounces with the force of the major slamming into him, every thrust hitting that spot from earlier. He bears down, hunches over, knuckles white on the metal bar of the headboard. 

Born of restless, reckless need. 

“ _ An.. ras.. ras, ah!”  _ Kell’s head lolls forward. The major’s forehead pressed to the ridge of spine between his shoulder blades, hot breath and saliva joining the sheen of sweat already there. The hand that had been gripped, near bruising his hip, snakes up over his stomach and chest, linger for a moment at the hollow of his throat, before landing at his jaw and dipping two fingers onto Kell’s tongue. Kell sucked greedily at them, saliva smearing over his chin and jaw, over the major’s fingers and palm and Kell’s neck. The man had dissolved into a babbled litany of Maktahn colloquialisms, strings of syllables and consonants Kell didn’t understand in a tone so deep and breathy that Kell likely wouldn’t have made out the words had they been in high royal.

Wild and utterly senseless. 

Kell feels his need finally cresting, shooting up from his core out into every limb and nerves. Head bent and pressed to the cold metal, fingers bent and pressed to the tops of his teeth, Kell moans and whines and finally spills over their hands. It feels too long, too much, until the major goes still and Kell feels the rush of him finishing inside him, forehead sliding over their mingled sweat on skin.

“ _ Rensa tav, _ ” Kell pants as the hand drops from his mouth, world fuzzy. Tears roll over his cheeks as he comes down, the older man behind him holding him close. It felt childish, more than a little silly, but it was the truth. 

“ _ Vos _ .. eh. What is it?” The major struggles to collect his faculties and string to words together just as badly as Kell is.

Kell huffs a laugh, grinning into the back of his hand. “Th-Thank you… That’s how we, we say thank you.”

The other man laughs too. It’s clear from the sound he isn’t laughing at Kell, but at the situation. The frantic rush and clawing need now abated, the absurdity of it all breaking over them as they knelt on the small bed with the creaking springs. He kisses a line down the center of Kell’s back, soft pecks right over the ridge of the spine. 

“ _ Mas marist _ ,” The man rasps. “I know some of your language too,  _ casero _ .”

“That’s the wrong kind of captain,” Kell scoffs and they dissolve further into laughter. 

~*~*~*~*~

An hour later, Kell’s shirt still hangs open, sweat sticking the over-washed cotton fabric to his skin. His lips are bruised, comfortably swollen as he places a cigarette between them and lights it. The major – Kell smirks at the name, the title, whatever it was between them – watches him with those glittering dark green eyes.

Kell takes a long drag, exhaling a cloud of pale grey between them. He leans back against the headboard, flashing a crooked half-smile. “What now?”

The man, lying on his back across the foot of the bed, smiles at him. A real, warm smile. The same one that had gotten Kell’s heart going a mile a minute at the bar downstairs.

“What now indeed…” he muses. “A better question would be ‘are you staying the night?’… Would it not, captain?”

Kell stares at him, cigarette perched in his fingers. “You… Are you going to stay?”

“Why would I leave?” The man grins widely at him, a shell-pink flush sat high in his cheeks. “I promised to teach you my little trick didn’t I?”

Kell’s mouth waters at the idea. He covers it with another deep drag on the cigarette. “If you’re going to stay, you know… I should know your name. Shouldn’t I?”

“Must you?”

“If you insist on having my fingers shoved up your arse, I should say so,” Kell smirked, raising an eyebrow. He leans forward, passing the cigarette to the other man. “It’s only polite.”

The man takes it and places it in his mouth, turning to stare at the ceiling again, breathing slowly and evenly. He passes it back to Kell without a glance, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Holland.”

“Kell.” Kell holding the cigarette in his teeth as he pulls his shirt all the way off. “Was that really so hard?"


	12. October 1916: Vesk's Southern Border (p.3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of 3 -- A short chapter to round out this section.  
> Simple comfort and set up. Enjoy all!
> 
> Dedicated to it'salwaystheapocalypse (@ashintheairlikesnow), originator of the HollandxKell ship in my mind. Happy one more year around the sun, hopefully this brings a smile to your face :)

Late that night -- so late it was really early morning -- Kell rolled over on the small bed to find Holland awake too. It wasn’t surprising, but it was comforting. Kell had felt the man’s fingers drawing circles over his stomach as he dozed and drifted. It settled him to know the other man wasn’t sleeping either. That he was not alone in the dark.

The stared at one another for a long while, Holland eventually reaching out to pull their bodies even closer together. Forehead pressed to forehead, noses bumping, chests touching when they breathed too deeply. Kell’s hip bones pushing against Holland’s; Holland’s knee pressing into Kell’s. Fingers threading in hair, trailing over necks and jaws and throats, breath mingling, warming the air between them before their lips met again.

Kell’s heart thuds in the midnight dark, slow and steady. It thrills as Holland bites and sucks at his bottom lips and his nose brushes against Kell’s. As Holland smiles against his mouth, the cadence of his breathing conveying more than words alone would. Legs tangles, hands press and slide against warm skin, and Kell lets it pull him under. 

Let’s his guard slip and drop and vanish because he is, impossibly, safer than he has been in months. 

In years.

Safe. Seen. Held. Perhaps loved for a moment.

Despite the nature of their encounter. Despite knowing to his core that they will never meet again, won’t even write to one another. Despite never having wanted for anything in the entirety of his young life. Kell needed this more than air. More than the blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs, the all-consuming warmth of this stranger pressed to his front.

Holland cuts them off before they could get too carried away. “Do you not sleep either?”

Kell swallows tightly. “No. Almost never.”

“Is that why you drink?”

“Yes.”

“Me as well.” Holland adjusts, draping an arm over Kell’s waist. His green eyes, appearing nearly black in the pre-dawn dark, still flicker and shine. As though the man’s insides are made of lantern light and campfire instead of flesh and blood.

Kell hesitates. “It… It makes it... easier? Numbs all the noise for a little while.”

“But even so, the exhaustion never leaves. The ah… what is your word for it?  _ Ves-nas _ no.”

“ _ Vesnara shast, _ ” Kell supplies with a nod. “The wandering souls, yes, they… They follow us.”

Holland nods solemnly, his expression sobering. Kell feels like he’s being examined, that if the man could open him up and poke around inside he would and would make a full study of it. Any other day, the vulnerability would have killed him, left him flayed and shivering. Kell couldn’t place why those feelings were not invading his body now; why the life-long urge to suppress and run, to deny and bury the aching hurt in his chest would have abandoned him now. 

He supposed it was the comforting dark. The knowledge that, once the sun rose, they would walk away from here with one another’s secrets. Whether a weight would be lifted from him for it, Kell didn’t know and didn’t dare hope too hard. He simply sunk his teeth into the misplaced love and caring the man next to him was offering, feeling guilty for how much he wanted it.

“I’m sorry for--.”

“When was the last time someone told you a bedtime story?”

Kell blinks. “A… A bedtime story? Like, like children?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“I don’t think… Never. I don’t think anyone ever has, but. Why?” Kell huffs a laugh. “Are you trying to help _ me _ ? We… You don’t know me.”

“All the same, it would be to help you. Partly,” Holland smirks. “It is a selfish request as it would help me too. My mother would tell my brother and I a particular one, when things were hopeless when we were young.”

“Hopeless?” Kell reaches for the man’s face. He knows it sounds pitying but he doesn’t mean it that way. The man only nods, pulling Kell’s hand away and holding it near his chest.

“Not only us. Makt has not had just rulers in some time, and my London suffers worst of all,” Holland murmurs, his grip on Kell’s hand strengthening. “That is beside the point. My mother, and others, had a story… A legend. It helped make the dark times… lighter. We tell it on the front lines now.”

For the first time that night, Kell sees the unwanted age on the man. Sees the plaguing exhaustion in his skin, the lingering hardship in his hair, and suddenly he needed to know the story. Needed to hear it from the man’s mouth, needed to hope it would put them both to sleep. Needed to believe for a moment that there was something to hope for, something to cling to when he was back in the trenches next to Rhy and the shelling was too loud to hear his own thoughts. 

Kell leans forward, pressing a brief kiss between his eyebrows. “Tell me then, major. Saints knows we could use some light these days.”

“Then turn over,” Holland whispers. “As we were before.”

Kell does as asked, bed springs creaking as he rolls back onto his shoulder. Holland tugs the blankets up around them and wraps his arms securely around Kell’s stomach, further tying them together. Kell presses back into his chest, sinking under the feeling of the man’s forehead now pressed to his neck. When he speaks again, his voice is rounded out, full and deep as rolling thunder. Careful, exact, the pacing set not by him but by someone else many years ago and memorized to perfection. Kell closed his eyes and listened.

“Come close and hear me. Time is short and life is hard, but it will not last for long… The defender of London, the guardian of the Kosik, the  _ Someday King _ is nearby…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Kell wakes again there are no arms around him, no breath at his neck, no solid body at his back. His head pulses, eyes aching, mouth coated out with cotton from the previous night’s indulgence. He flops onto his back to stare at the ceiling, feeling something crunch underneath. He rolls back up and reaches for the offending object. It’s his carton of cigarettes, pulled right out of his breast pocket, crumpled and dirty from weeks stowed away. There were three cigarettes -- fragrant, calming, Arnesian cigarettes -- the night before, now gone.

Kell sighs and smiles, considering the filched smokes a tip for the sex, the story, the rest.

Something rattles in the crumpled carton. He flips open the peeling top and overturns the box. A heavy metal pin drops out onto his chest, the same silver cross from the major’s uniform. Kell holds it over his face, running his fingers over the black ridges in the silver, the dull edges and twisting filled-gold vines. He smiles to himself, catching a heavy-handed scrawl on the inside of the carton lid.

_ Holland Vosijk. Anoshe, captain _ .

Kell laughed to himself. “I know some of your language too… Indeed.”


	13. December 1919: Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Routine CW: self-medicating, alcoholic tendencies (sorry Rhy).
> 
> Kicking off the week with a brand new chapter! If anyone follows me on Tumblr (@orchidscript), you probably saw me whining about how difficult this one was. But it got written and here it is! Only one more chapter to go until we all get in the way way back machine and visit Makt for a good long while.
> 
> As always: thank you for sticking with me, and enjoy!
> 
> NOTE: This chapter was updated on March 10, 2020 with an extra scene featuring Kell and Rhy in the aftermath. The scene existed in my head and I didn't add it initially, but I am now at the behest of Lillian_Sunshine. Thank you for bringing me to my senses, darling, the chapter is truly better for it!

By the time the Soner Rast reached the stroke of midnight, Rhy Maresh, king of Arnes, was very, _very_ drunk. 

He had escorted the Maktahn knight, Ojka, to her rooms following dinner then hunkered down in the tea room with a bottle of wine. Two bottles really. He slouched in one of the high backed chairs, too sloshed to be genuinely uncomfortable. Jackets tossed to the floor, boots similarly discarded, and bundled in a blanket, Rhy stares up at the mantelpiece and the photographs collected there.

Talking to them.

Like an utter lunatic.

When he told Kell earlier he thought he was going mad, Kell had not taken him seriously enough. Or even simply as seriously as Rhy would have liked him to. And Kell was always serious, so serious. Rhy had wondered for years if Kell had any other traits or personality besides _dead serious_.

“Tha’s why you brought ‘im home with you, isn’t it?” Rhy slurs, eyes trained on his father’s portrait. His glass sloshes dangerously in his hand as he tries and fails to sit up. “You knew he would be stoic an’ serious an’ brave, jus’ like you. Like I never was… He shoulda been crown prince but _no_ . _I_ had to, have to.”

Rhy huffs, filling his mouth with more wine. His father’s eyes look beyond him, above him, never exactly at him the way Rhy wishes they did. The way they had in life. Rhy wonders for a moment if his father had ever really looked at him.

He rolls his eyes and pinches himself. “That’s unfair, you whining toddler. Kell’s the one they never looked at… You never did, either of you. Ever. You brought him here, made him call you parents, and then what? Forgot him. _That_ isn’t unfair, even if you are dead… I should have said it t’you sooner. Kell was always better than me and you both jus’ ignored him.”

Rhy considers the silence around him, the thin glass cradled in his palm. He breathes out heavily, squeezing it until it starts to squeak in his grasp. He quickly downs the rest of the glass, swallowing tightly, and drops the glass to the floor.

Just to hear it shatter, thin clear pieces skittering across the gold-veined marble.

Rhy smiles at the sound, giggling drunkenly as he reaches down for the bottle. The second one of the night, open and half-full. He rests the bottle against his chest, pulling his legs up to keep it in place. What was the use of a glass anyway? Fancy glasses were for dignified people, people who still had or were holding fast to a shred of decency.

Rhy wasn’t dignified.

Rhy didn’t have any decency.

Not anymore at least.

But he was a very good liar. An excellent liar, always, even as a child. He used the skill often -- Kell would say too often -- to get himself out of trouble, to get Kell out of trouble when Rhy managed to get both of them on their parents’ bad side. To charm his way around fellow _vestra_ , foreign _ostra_ , the citizens of Arnes and London proper. To sweet talk himself back into Kell’s good graces after a fight, into a diplomat’s good favor, into a lover’s bed when he needed to forget the one he really wanted.

Rhy maresh was a very good liar. The very best. Especially when lying to himself.

Lying into believing he was worth something, anything. Lying vehemently so he wouldn’t have to admit to the vices he used to quell the acres of anger and deep well of sadness inside him. Lying through his teeth that he deserved to live, deserved to survive, deserved the weight of the blood in his veins and the crown on his head. 

“Rhy Maresh, _han haret-_ ... _Hazretl-_ ... can’ even fuckin’ say it,” Rhy slurs, raising the bottle spout to his lips. He drinks , then scowls at his own photograph. Himself, four-nearly-five years younger, pinned and tailored and starched to haughty perfection, preening at getting what he wanted as if there was ever a time when he didn’t. “Stupid. Naive. So fucking stupid and pround and _wrong_ . Wrong, wrong, wrong, you were so _fucking wrong_ . And now you’re king, you spoiled brat… Fuckin’ _rewarded_ for being _stupid_ … _Pilse_.”

He wants to spit in his own face so he drinks more. He likes how the spiced wine and bitter anger mixes and burns in his cheeks, makes the blanket around his shoulders far too warm. Stifling. Uncomfortable. Almost unbearable. He laughs again, half-crazed as the heady-mix hits his brain. His guards would eye him in the morning, minding his hangover and headache. Kell would too, side-stepping his foul temper, his irritability, his evident lack of sleep.

Rhy, yet again, was his brother’s burden.

Kell had been brought in to carry that.

Rhy seethed, glaring daggers at his younger self, hot tears pricking his amber eyes. “I. Hate. You. I _hate you_ . No one else would dare, no one else will but _I do_.”

When the photograph doesn’t answer -- _as it shouldn’t_ , the last of Rhy’s common sense gasps -- Rhy rolls his eyes. “Nothing to say for yourself? Nothing at all? Pathetic, of course not you prideful bastard. _Sanct_ how anyone tolerated your whining, your stupid impulses, how anyone tolerates _you_ is a mystery. Someone should have told you off years ago, you little shit. _Kell_ should have told you off years ago. _Pilse_ , _sanct. Fuck._ ”

He scoffs, eyes flickering to Kell’s portrait now. Sat all the way at the end. The eldest child who wasn’t a child at all, not really. Rhy should move it, should banish he parent’s to the far end for a little while. See how they like being pigeon-holed and pushed away, scolded and ignored. He would move it right then, if moving himself didn’t make the room roll like waves at sea. 

But he will move it. 

In the morning.

“Promise.”

Rhy runs his tongue over his front teeth. Kell was handsome in the photograph, buttoned up in his austere grey field uniform with his hat tucked under his arm. He looked upstanding, dignified, as regal as he ever had before or since (the moments Rhy ordered him to do so aside). His brother looked like a prince, a _real prince_. The real prince he was now and not Rhy’s tag-along nanny with an “honorary title” their mother had “granted him” as a small child, for appearance’s sake. 

When Kell came home, that was the first wrong Rhy had righted. The rest would take years.

“How many times did I almost get you killed?” Rhy mumbles to the portrait, to Kell’s even empty expression. He had hated standing for the photographs, hated when mother would correct his posture to keep him straight-backed. Kell hated how tall he was, had slouched from his first growth spurt at twelve. Very rarely did Rhy see his brother pull himself up to full height -- on horseback to keep his balance, when members of the court were too comfortable, when Rhy needed protecting.

When Rhy needed protection.

Rhy tipped back the bottle, rubbing at his eyes. “How many times did you almost die for me, because of me? How many times did you -- fucking hell, I got you into so much trouble. From the beginning and… why didn’t you leave me? I would have left… You should hate me.”

 _Because I hate me. Who I was. Who I’ve become_. 

“I don’t think you _can_ hate me.” Rhy shifts in his chair, finally uncomfortable. He takes a long drink and, deciding he hates how the eyes of the portraits follow him, stumbles towards the mantle on wobbly legs. One by one he knocks the portraits on their faces, the black felt kickstands sticking straight into the air. He smiles bitterly hearing the glass of his father’s crack. Rhy stares at the overturned frame, his thoughts growing darker as the wine floods his senses again. He brings his fist down on the back with a satisfying crunch. 

“Serves you right,” Rhy says to the face he can no longer see. “Leaving me with this mess, training Kell to coddle me when you and mother no longer can. I wanted to be _just like you_. And you wanted me to be no better than a _pretty_ _porcelain doll_. A perfect little picture. _Face it_ , I’m not the son you wanted. _Kell is_. And you weren’t planning on dying so soon I guess. Pity… No one to stop me if I abdicated, made Kell king, is there father? Because _you're dead_.”

Rhy had never felt such a surge of rage towards a dead man, let alone towards his own father. The man he had revered his whole life, who’s adventure stories steered his dreams and play. The man who still stood tall, strong, capable, and imposing in Rhy’s thoughts as he had in life. 

The man he looked up to.

The man he had always strove to impress.

The man he had pretended to be.

The man he was failing in death.

Rhy was failing. He was failing London and Arnes. He was failing the people who put their faith in him. He was failing Kell, who loved him and expected him to be better than he was. He was failing his parents, their memories, their legacies. The weight of all that failure consolidated in his chest, coating and covering the rage to sit heavy, suffocating on his lungs.

Rhy turns, the room sloshing in front of him as he thumps the bottle on the table, nearly tripping over his own boots as he snatches the blanket off the chair and stumbles back into the corridor. The guards flinched at the noise, moving to try to help him upright and negotiate him to bed in his own chambers, but Rhy pushed them away. He made a sloppy, rambling beeline to his parents’ old chambers, left exactly how they had left it.

Rhy had never darkened the door, the two-year-old layer of dust a testament to the haste he had returned home in. He had received word from Isra, been summoned immediately back to London. He had arrived to a funeral’s welcome, viewed his parents’ prone bodies and put their souls to rest. He had never presumed their rooms as his, had never bothered to move his things or even have the larger chamber cleaned. 

The bed was not his.

His father’s robes were not his.

The crown should not be his.

Rhy stood a few paces inside the door, his bare feet smearing the dust on the floor. It was preserved, a poorly cared for mausoleum. He cast his eyes about the dark space, his eyes adjusting but vision still mottled by drink. He drops the blanket from his shoulders and pushes further into the room. He doesn’t know where to start but he just knows he wants to wreck something. Break something. Give something, anything, the treatment he was putting his own body through night after night.

After some more bleary thinking, Rhy starts with the bookshelf. He reaches up, throwing them to the ground, each thumping to the floor, a few landing just right to crack and splinter their spines. Once it’s clear -- trinkets, book ends, and all -- he moves to another corner, scattering his mother’s jewelry, pushing over chairs, and smashing the dehydrated decanter. Crystal cut glass and the last, stickiest contents splash across the dust, hardly disturbing the grey layer.

Rhy grins madly, the thick knot of horrible emotion slowly melting with each act. The guards should be stopping him, but he supposes they can’t. The whole room and everything in it is technically his, to do with as he pleases. His parents are unable to raise a protest to anything he chooses to do at that moment.

And what Rhy chooses is to raise hell.

He tears through their dressing rooms and the bathroom. Tears down curtains, rips away sheets and pillows, smashing mirrors without a care to how the shards pierced the bottoms at his feet, smearing blood into a thick paste with the dust. He drags a letter opener through the silk wall coverings then throws it haphazard into a painting of the Isle at sundown. 

Fumbling on torn soles and breathing hard, Rhy wanders out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t care who it wakes up. It can all be explained away, hidden behind doors and careful white lies. He leaves a smeared trail behind him as he returns to the tearoom and his bottle.

He doesn’t sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kell was used to being woken up in the middle of the night, truly he was. To the point of not minding the intrusions of his own mind, expecting them and losing some of the inherent resentment. He was not pleased to be woken up by a guard, let alone by one wearing a distinctly distressed expression and right after his body had exhausted itself into sleep. 

“Yes, what is it?” He grumbles, pushing himself up to sitting.

“The king, he-,” The guard cut off a longer explaination, opting for something more simple. “He’s hurt himself. Come with me, please.”

Kell sighs and nods, rubbing his eyes. He stands, pulling on a pair of trousers but leaving his undershirt and forgoing shoes. “Where is he?”

“Tea room.”

“Thank you.” Kell does his best to push off the exhaustion and starts for wherever Rhy was — and whatever he had done to hurt himself. He did his best to stay as quiet as possible, mindful of their visitor’s room, moving past Rhy’s empty rooms towards the stairs.

Their parents’ chamber doors stood wide open. Kell stopped cold in surprise. The room hadn’t been opened in years — Rhy had shut them and told Kell to leave it be. Until tonight, it would see. Kell could only guess at the level of turmoil he would find his brother in when he could finally move from the spot. But he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the destroyed bedroom. Torn to shreds, smashed, and left.

Rhy was rarely so upset. 

Kell’s worry only builds.

He finally tears his eyes away from the open door, finding a young woman crouched and scrubbing at the threshold. A maid the guard had awoken to clean up the mess his brother had caused. Someone who needed to sleep but was awake in the dead of night to contend with whatever remained. Kell sympathizes. He approaches and she glances up at him, pausing her work. She seems to know what he’s about to ask, so Kell waits.

“The, the king… He, I don’t know what he did,” She whispers in Arnesian. “But the room is damaged and there’s blood everywhere.”

Kell nods. “Leave the room. Once you’re finished here, will you bring me —.”

“Staff has the medical kit with him already,” She brushes him off. “He’s with the king.”

“Thank you,” Kell offers a tired, grateful smile. “When you’re finished, please go to bed. My orders. Understand?”

“Understood, _mas vares_ , thank you.”

Kell leaves her and rushes down the stairs, less cognizant of the sound he’s making now. If Rhy’s tantrum hadn’t woken Ojka — and Kell highly doubted she had been considering even he had managed to sleep through it. — then his urgency wouldn’t. A few guards linger in the main corridor of the palace, in their usual nighttime posts. None of them acknowledge him beyond a nod, none of them stand in his way as he near-runs through the hall and flings open the door to the tea room. 

“ _Sanct_ Rhy,” Kell mutters. His brother was curled up on the sofa, a blanket over his head. His guard, Staff, stood nearby. A wine glass lays shattered on the floor, all their mother’s picture frames turned down on the mantle, two bottle of wine stood on the table.

“Shit not _you_ …” came a muffled voice from under the blanket.

Kell rolls his eyes and walks forward, avoiding the shards of glass. He dismisses Staff with a nod, dropping on to the floor next to Rhy. He waits until the door closes before lifting the corner of the blanket.

“What did you _do_ , Rhy?” Kell says softly but not gently.

Rhy stares at him miserably, eyes watery but clear. He was sobering up, or the pain was doing it for him. “I… I s-snapped.”

Kell raises an eyebrow. “You snapped?”

“At them.” Rhy pointed towards the mantel. “I snapped, at them. At me. I just… I had to, to ruin something. I had to ruin... to ruin... _them_."

Kell blinked, brain rapidly tying together the strings he had been collecting throughout the last ten minutes. Rhy was angry, upset, and drunk, aiming all his emotion at the memory of his parents. Over what, Kell didn’t know and didn’t dare ask.

That could wait until morning.

Instead, he reaches under the blanket, running his fingers across Rhy’s forehead and brushing his curls back from his eyes. A motion he remembered well, having done it over and over for his brother as children. When he was sad, scared, or sick, Kell would kneel by his bedside and push away the tears. It’s all he could manage to do now, sleepiness wearing at his resolve.

“Can you get up?” Kell murmurs.

“I’ll need help, but yes,” Rhy whispers back, sniffing. “I um… I cut myself, on all the glass.”

“I noticed. Come on then, let me help you.” Kell pulls the blanket all the way off Rhy, who curls his nose at the sudden rush of light. 

“Where are we going?”

“Your rooms,” Kell answered simply, hauling his brother upright and keeping him secure with an arm tight around his ribs. “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

Rhy leans against him, letting Kell steer him out of the room. He sighs heavily, more defeated than he’s ever sounded before. “Kell, I…”

“I know, Rhy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s alright.”

“No, listen… I’m sorry you have to carry me. Always. That they made you, that they never remembered you were a child too… I’m sorry. I’ve been.” Rhy cuts off with a wince. “I’ve not been a good brother to you. You don’t deserve to live holding me up.”

Kell, exhausted and stunned, can’t bring himself to answer.


	14. December 1919: Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before we take a little trip to Makt :) Enjoy a dash of Ojka's POV!

The Maresh sovereign was unwell the next morning, Ojka could see that much immediately. He walked carefully, wincing every few steps or so. There was a paleness in his dark skin that had not been there the evening before, his gold-colored eyes surprisingly dull. Dark circles sat under them, further betraying the exhaustion he hid with a sunny disposition.

His brother, the prince, was close on his heels. He looked more well-rested, but still somehow not quite right. His red hair was askew, his cheek sporting a decent pillow scar. His blue eyes were focused and clear. He was dressed more casually that morning in shirtsleeves, black wool waistcoat and trousers. Not the pristine royal garb she had seen him in the day prior, a fact that seemed to annoy the king. Or maybe it was jealousy?

Yes, that’s what it was. Jealousy, a hint of guilt, swirling in those pretty golden eyes.

Her whole life, she had a talent for reading people -- reading their emotions, predicting their next steps, taking stock of their injuries. She had seen the exhaustion on the young man the evening before, had seen the kindness in him as she followed his walk through this London the day before, had guessed at his reliance on drink from his heavy pour at dinner. Ojka could see every weakness on the man as clear as day, knew from the moment he sat down in the library how she could exploit them for the sake of her own people, her own nation.

And yet, she found she did not want to.

Rhy Maresh was the ally Makt needed, and needed desperately. From the looks of their London and the countryside she had traveled through to arrive there, the country was recovering. Not quickly, granted, but well. Arnes would again be strong, and Makt alongside it. If Ojka and her patron played their cards right, she supposed over morning coffee. She sat next to the redheaded prince, who picked at his food and shot his brother a dark look every time he reached for a painted red box on the table next to him. 

They didn’t eat much, either of them. She had noticed it at dinner, but only in the king. Kell had eaten, albeit so very lost in thought Ojka now wondered if he was aware of how much he had eaten at all. Now he picked at his plate, favoring his coffee. The king did the same.

The king -- who still in her mind was only ever Holland -- had given her a briefing before she left, as well as a half-filled journal with as much information as he had on the Maresh family. He had been very aware of the family, of their politics and presence, when he had been at the Danes’ right hands. They had only known one another for a scant few years but Ojka and Holland had an understanding, a trust that they seemed to share with no others. He trusted her with his war stories, his journals, and the stockpile of information he had managed to accumulate throughout the Dane rule. She had trusted him with her safety, her secrets, the softness under her sharpness. 

He had taken all of it, without question, and trusted her more for it.

Once she had hated him, now she respected him.

He didn’t seem to mind her hatred of him, didn’t hardly acknowledge her devotion now. He was largely the same as he had ever been, save a few notable changes. His bitterness had dissolved, evaporating completely in front of select people. His habitual apathetic expression had softened in recent months. He smiled more -- when he greeted the people of London; when Nasi darted through the throne room after her favorite cat. He had smiled quite a bit when the letter from Arnes had arrived, signed by both Kell and Rhy.

His journal contained more notes about the redheaded prince than anyone else, reading as though Holland had been in the man’s presence. He claimed he had never met the Maresh royals, but Ojka wondered.

She had seen the way Kell Maresh’s eyes had brightened at the mention of the Someday King, the way he vanished into his thoughts as soon as she had said Holland’s name. He had known of the story the king took his title from where his brother had clearly not. The way he had blushed in embarrassment and fumbled at dinner, abruptly excusing himself, walking quickly to his rooms and not returning. Rhy Maresh apologizing for the behavior over another glass of wine, appearing as perplexed as he sounded.

Kell Maresh knew Holland.

Rhy Maresh had no idea.

This was a piece of information worth holding on to.

At exactly nine, Rhy Maresh stands and straightens his clothes, his plate largely untouched. He picks up his freshly-filled coffee cup and smiles at Ojka. “You’ll forgive us if we depart early, Ojka. Kell and I hold public audiences until noon. You are more than welcome to join us, but the palace and London are yours to explore if you’d rather not.”

Ojka smiles at him, noting the stiffness Kell’s shoulders as he stands next to her. “I think I will explore. Leave you both to your work.”

“Excellent,” Rhy says cheerfully. “We’ll take lunch here at noon, and then you and I can discuss more of the particulars of our strategy.”

Ojka nods and watched them go. She lingered over her own food for a while longer, finding it easier to eat now that they were gone. It felt oddly rude to eat when her hosts weren’t, a thought that struck her sharply. She had never had enough food in her life and the moment she did she was more concerned with the others. 

“Madness,” She mumbles to herself. 

When she’s finished, she decides to explore the grounds. The Arnesian palace was so unlike the one in Makt, designed from the first stone to be beautiful, luxurious. A building not meant to shield the throats of the warlords calling themselves monarchs. The marble floors were a creamy white threaded with gold, the walls covered in intricate mosaics twining up to the domed ceilings coated in bronze. It was colorful where Makt was icy greys and whites. It smelled like a hot-house garden where her home smelled like campfire, snow, occasionally the pale flowers that bloomed in spring when sunlight hit them just right.

Ojka wandered aimlessly, finding herself in another library, an expansive garden, dust-covered guest quarters, the stables, and parts of the palace bearing signs of the war. Two large ballrooms were caved in, strewn with shattered glass, twisted metal and splintered wood. A few brave bird nests perched atop the heaps. Some rogue plants had taken root, frost-covered and pale in the winter chill.

The first sign that this London had sustained any damage. 

They put up a decent front, Ojka thought while moving back into the corridor. Rather, Rhy Maresh put up a decent front. This London was more alive than her’s, with people milling in streets that looked entirely normal to her. The only damage she could see outside of the palace was a crumbled river bridge and an abandoned guard post just inside city limits. Beyond that, the markets were working, shops were open, inns functioning. The river ports and docks were busy, though probably not as busy as before. 

The First London was healthy, the empire with it. The palace, it seemed, was not.

Rhy Maresh, Ojka supposed, was a martyr in king’s clothing.

She explored more of the damaged portion before returning to the main portion of the palace. As she walked, she could now see the cracks in the walls, the dust in the corners of unused corridors, the rare presence of servants. As if the palace was rationing alongside its people, in solidarity with its people. A novel concept in an empire Ojka regarded with some resentment. People here were amiable, the children playful and unafraid. No one survives by the viciousness of their snarl, their ability to hide among the shadows, the lightness of their fingers. 

Ojka felt a pang of jealousy still, tempered only by the knowledge that Nasi would like it here. She reminds herself to tell Holland to bring her.

Without thinking, she finds herself standing outside an open door. Rhy Maresh’s voice was faintly heard as he talked to citizen after citizen. He took notes, sat at a repurposed dining table instead of the thrones behind him, and seemed to listen. The same genuine demeanor she had witnessed tracking him through the streets the day before. Kell stood beside his brother’s chair, one arm held rigidly against his side. 

Holland had noted an injury, a broken shoulder. Ojka wondered idly how he knew.

He was speaking in Arnesian, a language she did not understand and had no interest in learning. She had a decent enough grasp of high royal, which was still difficult, and Rhy Maresh had spoken to her in mistake-free Maktahn. Unless ordered by Holland, she would abstain for yet another grueling round of language lessons. High royal had been trying enough of her patience and Holland’s.

Regardless of tongue, the young Arnesian’s tone was gentle and understanding. He sounded like a caretaker, a parent, like he really cared. Similar to Holland, but Rhy Maresh was heartfelt where Holland was exact and logical. Holland saw Makt’s problems as personal but kept his emotions at a reasonable distance. Rhy Maresh took Arnes’ problems as extensions of his own, reflections of himself. 

He cared too much, too deeply, too dangerously.

It explained the drinking, the dark circles, the dullness about him.

Ojka added that to her notes, the things she knew Holland would take interest in knowing. She reminded herself to remember to bear it in mind during their negotiations that afternoon, as she was already taking into account the nature of the redheaded prince. He was the eldest, but not the heir. Protective but not overbearing. People avoided his gaze in favor of Rhy’s, serious and naturally intimidating. They were a team, friendly and exacting. Summer and winter, two halves of the same whole.

If Faro and Vesk wanted to cut Arnes down at the knees, they would have to get their hands on Kell. Remove Kell and the wave of guilt, personal pressure, too much feeling would roll over Rhy, crushing him. Kell seemed strong enough to take control should something happen to his brother, but Ojka had a feeling the two would slit their throats for one another.

A dangerous attachment to have.

But Ojka didn’t have any attachments that deep. She wouldn’t know what that sacrificial, suicidal, unquestioning love felt like.

She watched, intrigued, until the visitors ran out and the young men collected their notes to leave. They talked quietly to themselves for a few minutes. Ojka didn’t know how long. She spun around, quickly making for her guest room. She made it to her door as Kell and Rhy’s voices entered the hallway, narrowly avoiding their notice. She slipped inside, collecting Holland’s journal, a pen, and a few sheets of paper, taking her time arriving in the tearoom for lunch.

The brothers are already sitting, papers spread between them, the tray of food largely ignored. They talked in low voices, shuffled through papers and seemed to be striking deals over whatever the pages read.

Ojka cleared her throat lightly, drawing their eyes. She bows quickly and steps into the room. “ _ Hátign þín _ , how were your audiences?”

Rhy grins at her, appearing more invigorated than previously. He answered in Maktahn. “It went well. There are a few we can’t solve immediately, but the patience of our citizens cannot be overstated. They are far too forgiving of my short-comings.”

“Short-comings,” Kell mutters, tone derisive. 

Rhy shot him a look of thinly-veiled annoyance, pushing it away when he turned back to Ojka. “I hope you enjoyed your reprieve?”

“Quite,” Ojka answers, reaching for the lunch offerings. Like dinner the night before, she had no idea what she was eating but it smelled delicious and didn’t have the faintly bitterness of poison. Her hosts followed her lead, taking more than they had that morning. “The gardens are lovely. We don’t have anything like them in Makt.”

“We should have you back in summer then, so you can see them in their full glory,” Rhy answered amiably. 

“I would like that very much. I know my king would too. He has a secret fondness for the smell of roses,” Ojka says gently, surreptitiously observing the  _ aven vares _ . His eyes flicker to her, then quickly down to his plate. Ojka suppresses a smile -- they must know one another. “You should visit my London sometime as well. We don’t have the…  _ color _ Arnes does, but it is quite pretty in spring, once the wildflowers bloom.”

Rhy Maresh smiles and nods. “I’m so sick of winter, that sounds lovely. When you return with your king for our talks, we’ll make sure to set a date.”

“I’ll be sure to remember.” Ojka flicks open the journal to a blank page, scribbling a few things in an uneven hand. Her speaking was better than her writing, even in her native tongue. She curled her wrist so neither of the Maresh royals could see.

“Speaking of which, would you like to begin planning now?” Kell speaks this time, his voice almost startling Ojka. He hadn’t spoken much before, and his Maktahn was not anywhere near passable -- too formal, too stilted and old-fashioned. But she had not expected it to be deep and rich, honeyed in a way that seemed unnatural to his slouching shoulders, the crease between his brows.

Rhy opens his mouth to speak, but Ojka has already beaten him to an answer. “Yes, while we are not too tired to concentrate. I did some thinking during my walk, which I think you both would like to think on… I would like to get a letter back to my king as soon as possible, so he will be in agreement by the time I return.”

Rhy closes his mouth, glances to Kell, then Ojka, to his papers, then back to her. “Alright, yes, that sounds reasonable. Where would you like to begin?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_ Yðar hátign, _

_ I hope this letter arrives before I do. You’ll find enclosed details as to our renewed alliance with Arnes. I am sure you will find it to be generous on their half. We will be expected to return to Arnes for peace talks in February this coming year, which I think we will be stable enough to allow for. If not, Rhy Maresh seems amiable towards rescheduling. You were right -- he is far too kind for his own good, with something of a tendency towards martrydom. But I think Nasi will like him. _

_ The crown prince -- who seems very much to dislike his title -- is harder to read. If his brother is the heart of Arnes, then he is the spine. You two will get along quite well if you care to get to know these two. They’re quite young, perhaps only a few years older than Beloc. _

_ Arnes itself is not entirely well, but they are in better straits than we are at present. They have offered us improved trading rights, surplus rations, and a renewal of the Sijlt-to-Isle canal for shipping. Apparently the late king was the one who ended those discussions with the Danes over Astrid’s thirst for land. I’m sure you’re not surprised by this in the slightest. The more they talk of him, the more I think we are contending with the reasonable Maresh, but who am I to speak ill of the dead? _

_ I will have more details when I return, but if you find anything not to your express wishes, they can continue to be negotiated until the peace talks start. You will find Rhy Maresh of the same opinion about Athos’ weapons as you are. Vesk will not be so easy to persuade, so we will need to prepare for that. If all goes well, we will be invited back to Arnes in the summer. I’ve extended an invitation to them in kind, I hope you don’t mind. I thought Nasi would enjoy the color here, and you the libraries (The palace has three).  _

_ Oh, I nearly forgot: Kell Maresh sends his best wishes. He didn’t tell me as much, but from the way he brightened when I said your name, I assume he would have if he wasn’t avoiding more personal topics with me.  _

_ On vis och, _

_ X _


	15. Makt: Late November 1916

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins, everyone. And so. It. Begins.
> 
> Hop in the way-way back machine with me, folks. I'm taking you all the way back to Makt 1916 where we're going to spend a little more time with Ojka, Holland, the Danes, and a few other characters I'm adding in for funsies. This section will last several chapters and not concern anyone outside of Makt, save for a brief second encounter with a certain favorite redhead or ours.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Wander down to the bottom for a special art treat. I'm so very happy that you all are enjoying this mad AU. If you have questions, comments, or just want to say hi, you can find me here or on Tumblr @orchidscript. I do my best to answer everything that comes across my desk :)
> 
> Anyway, I'll stop yapping so you can enjoy!

Holland Vosijk always remembered the Someday King. The childhood story, the legend and sometimes prophecy whispered about in the poorer, darker parts of the city. In _his_ London; the one built on leftover scraps of hope, dreams in shambles, and generations of waiting and longing. His mother had been a believer, had hoped and wished, did her best to engender the same in her children. With her understanding smile, she had told them the Someday King was real, silently waiting in the wings until the perfect time arrived. Until London — _their_ London — needed him most.

His older brother, Alox, had rolled his eyes and declared it a raft of nonsense at the ripe old age of nine. The inoculation of hopeless people to the pain of their own suffering, a way to drug them into quiet complacency. Alox had teased Holland mercilessly for believing it -- despite having believed it for years himself, until father convinced him it wasn’t grown up to believe in their mother’s stories -- even long after their mother was gone.

Still, Holland listened to her. Asked her to spin the tale for him over and over, again and again. It made him smile, made her smile more for it. 

Holland held onto the small moments of happiness between them as he grew up; held fast to the last dregs of his dreams where the Someday King would arrive and make Holland his knight. When his mother lay in bed — dying but no one would say so — Holland would sit cross-legged on the blankets, telling her the story just as she had told him. When her voice failed and she could only make weak rasping noises, pointing to what she needed or wanted. As he helped her stay up long enough for him to drip water or thin broth into her mouth, holding clean snow to her lips when even that failed. As he ran damp washcloths over her forehead, changed out her nightshirt, braided and rebranded her sweat dampened hair. 

Holland told his mother the same story she had told him so many times. He had memorized her every pause and inflection, lilt of her words and change in her voice. Even after his mother’s lungs had gone still, her eyes frozen open in time, and his father — not long for this world either — had to drag him from the room by his wrist.

Holland knew every word by heart. 

As a child.

As his world imploded around him.

As a grown man, gagged and bound to rulers he would have rather seen dead.

In his heart of hearts, Holland knew that what his brother had said so long ago was the ultimate truth. The Someday King was not real. He was not waiting for the right day and hour to save them, as their mother believed until her final breath. He was no match for the cruelty of Queen Stol, the gluttony of Gorst, and the iron grip of the Dane Twins. 

Imaginary.

Fodder for desperate people. 

The ultimate delusion created by feeble hope.

Still, Holland Vosijk could not relinquish the tale. Would not discard the beloved story to waste and rot with the rest of his London, his home. No, too many had already abandoned them to dust and Holland, despite how they despised and feared him, would not be the next to cast them out. They would not be forgotten again.

If the Someday King was not real, then Holland would make him so. 

He would build a myth into man. He would solidify him, flesh and blood, from the ash that floated in the Third London’s air. Feed him on the despair of the citizens trapped in the Kosik slums, the nightmares of war-weary souls sent home shattered to the core, the low current of hatred pulsing around street corners and dark alleys. Let him sit before the White Revolutionaries and plan their battles for them, stand before the Twin Czars with one hand bearing crossed fingers tucked behind his back. 

It was with this conviction simmering in his blood — the very same that had been gnawing on his bones for decades — that Holland penned a letter.

_The ration store’s guard will change this Thursday at exactly 3pm. The Danes will be riding out to observe the troops, requiring the guard to patrol the streets. The store will be unguarded for approximately 15 minutes. Enter through the left side window. I will see it is left unlocked._

_~ a friend of the cause_

Folding it tightly, he tucks it into his coat pocket for safekeeping until he can slip out of the palace fortress. He wanders along the streets, hood up to hide his face from the casual onlooker or guard. The reports he receives told of a tavern -- the Scorched Bone -- at the edge of the Kosik where dissenters met and planned, occasionally joined by the shadowy ranks of the White Revolution. He slipped into the alley next to the Scorched Bone unseen, standing back and examining the wall in front of him for a sign of where to stash the information. Nothing his reports had any intelligence on that, thank the gods. Otherwise this mission would have been far too dangerous.

Finding no hiding spot, Holland sighs and resigns himself to an even more dangerous course. He moves swiftly to the doorway and steps in, not daring to remove his hood. Not one of the patrons looks up from their drinks, not allowing a newcomer to disturb their last pleasure in life. He scrounges at the dregs of his brain, trying to pull some bit of information he could use to look less suspicious, draw less attention. Nothing comes to him. He’s flying entirely blind.

“Looking for someone, _kommandant_?” An airy voice says at his elbow and Holland looks down into the yellow, cat-like eyes of a dancer. A woman he had seen before at the scant few street festivals London still had. Her red hair was twisted and tucked out of her face to reveal high, sharp cheekbones. The narrowing of her eyes, the tight purse of her lips tells Holland she knows exactly who he is.

“Yes,” Holland says easily. “You.”

Her eyebrows arch skeptically. “I don’t believe so.”

“No? How would you know who I’m in search of?”

The woman sniffs, casting her eyes about the company of the bar. “Anyone you’re looking for should be warned ahead of time. Are you drinking?”

“No.”

“I figured. You’ll forgive me if I indulge.” She spins and traipses to the bar. Holland lets out a heavy breath and follows, leaning against a rough wooden pillar. A tin cup of something strong in hand, she eyes him maliciously. “Tell me why I shouldn’t report you, _kommandant_?”

“Because I could haul you home with me faster than you could scream,” Holland whispers, keeping his hood pulled low over his eyes. “And I have something precious for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” The woman scoffs. “You’re as delusional as they say. Tell me, _sir_ , what about me needs something from you?”

Holland sighs and reaches into his coat pocket, setting the slim, folded piece of paper on the bar in front of her. He lowers his head to whisper in her ear. “I am not as I seem. Get this to the right people and there will be more.”

“Why should I trust you, _demon_?” She hisses at him.

He rests a hand on her shoulder, tightening the fingers just enough to instill fear. “Because I too would love nothing more than to wash the floors of the throne room with their blood and walk on the dust of their bones to tea. Get that letter to the white rebels, see that it is done.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Must you always trust someone to achieve an end?” Holland releases her and leaves swiftly through the same door. He exhales, slowing his frustration to a walk as he turns out onto the street corner and makes his way back in the direction of the Dane fortress. Hands shoved into his pockets, he crosses away from the tavern and keeps his head down as guards cross in front of him, not recognizing him.

There’s a soft noise and suddenly Holland is being tugged into another alley, back forced up against the wall of an abandoned home. The redheaded woman with the feline gaze stood in front of him, her slight hand fisted in his sleeve, a small wicked blade poking into the soft underside of his jaw.

“What are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“I said what, not who.” She hisses. “Answer the question.”

Holland stares down at her, impassive and blank, denying a small flame burning in his chest. She wasn’t as hardened and fearsome as she made herself out to be. He could see her fear next to her bravery, the way they wrapped around one another and spurned her to corner him — the most feared man in London — in a dark alley. How close to death she must believe herself to be, threatening him with a child’s knife in a thin dance costume. Holland felt himself smile at the defiance, the danger in her. Just a flicker. Understanding and knowing, just like his mother.

“A friend of the cause.”

“Bullshit.”

Holland swallows and reaches for her hand, pulling it and its knife down. He hears the sound of the city guard again and pulls her in close to his chest, tucking his face to her neck like lovers and their less savory counterparts tangled together. He hears her breath catch, smells the city smoke in her hair, the drink on her breath. 

“Ask me again.”

“W-What are you?”

“I would be the someday king, if you will help me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Against her better judgement, Ojka delivered the demon’s letter to the White Revolution. She wasn’t a member, but a friend of the cause -- just as the demon’s letter had said -- and knew how to find them. They rotated the taverns, stables, and shadowed alleyways often enough that she had to whisper around to land on their current meeting spot. She was quickly directed to the Silver Wood, a small clearing where people went to trade secrets, remind themselves of better times, and -- every once in a while -- to die. 

Dancing gave her a light step, swiftness around corners, the common sense pace to not attract attention. Her bright hair, an oddity in those parts, gave her away and she made sure to tuck back every piece into a scarf before moving quickly to the outskirts of the city. She twisted through narrow streets and narrower alleys, side-stepping city guards and men dressed for war. She kept her eyes down and her hands in her coat pockets, fingers loosely wrapped around an engraved silver knife, the handle’s fox and owl pressing into the heel of her palm.

She arrived earlier than their meeting time on purpose. Her aquiline eyes scanned the trees and the spaces in between before she dropped to her knees in the clearing center, the very image of a woman at prayer. City guards would not disturb a young woman praying to the old gods, especially if they were under the watchful orders of the Dane’s knight. Even _he_ would know that, In the dark and dust of the Kosik, people revered the Silver Wood.

There the dead went to rest. 

There magic lurked. 

There the old gods walked. 

Or, at the very least, that’s what they all said in the taverns and markets, during festivals and when crowded around hearths that held more smoke than fire. There were very few things, Ojka thought, that all of London could agree on. The chill of the Siljt, the divinity of the Silver Wood, and the removal of the Twin Czars were all, the last being the most dangerous. Speaking too loudly, too drunken and freely about the simmering hatred of the white-haired twins and their green-eyed caged pet was an open-invitation to be dragged away by palace guards. 

Arrested, tortured, and disappeared.

In the five years since the Danes ripped the throne from their predecessor -- a man not often heard, let alone seen. -- the ranks of the disappeared had grown. Steadily, until everyone knew someone who had vanished into the cold air like smoke in a storm. Far at the edge of the city, the sparsely populated Yevan, stood a polished black slab built into the stone wall of a guard’s post. Rumor had it the Danes had placed it there as a touchstone to the gods, an entrance tapping directly into the thin places separating Makt from… well, Ojka didn’t know what. It was just a rock, a black rock polished within an inch of its life that London’s citizens had turned into a makeshift memorial, hoping the dead and disappeared would slip unseen back home.

When Ojka is sure she is alone, she walks to the edge of the clearing, leaping into the lowest branches of the nearest tree. She pulls herself up a few more branches, tucking her legs and coat out of sight, and waits for them to arrive. 

They trickle in ones and twos to the meeting sight, clustering silently until there’s roughly thirty people in the clearing -- mostly men, Ojka notes bitterly. It’s a wonder the city guards weren’t tracking them the moment they left their homes, but she wondered how much the Dane’s demon knew that his scouts ultimately didn’t. If he truly was a friend of the movement, the would-be Someday King, as he boldly claimed four nights before, he would want to keep all who surrounded him completely ignorant, wouldn’t he?

Ojka sighs and shoves the thought to the side as she slides out of her hiding spot. The man didn’t deserve the degree of curiosity, the amount of space he was taking up in her brain.

Information or not, he was still one of _them_ in the end.

She slipped between bodies, situating herself right in the thick of things. Her slight stature and scarf -- an old style with the embroidery still colored bright -- draws eyes, but only for moments. The wonderment at her never extends beyond the cursory _there is someone new in our midst_.

Another body in the collection

Another dissenter in the fight.

Another no-name citizen prepared to lay siege to a world of icons and cockroaches.

They are all far younger than Ojka ever imagined them. When they were whispered about, she imagined old men with thick voices and thick beards to match, perhaps a small cluster of their sons and nephews to add muscle to wisdom. But no, they were young. The oldest she saw perhaps had young children of his own. She figured she was in good company, among the young men, the first bundles of snowdrops, and the watchful gaze of the Silver Wood.

Slouching into her old coat, digging the toe of her boot into the late winter snow, she hears hush falling over the assembly, the shivering sensation of it reaching her bones. She glances up to a middle-aged woman standing on an overturned bucked, dressed in a worn overcoat and scarf similar to her own. Except she let her faded doe-brown hair show, a winter breeze lifting and spinning strands in the air around her. Ojka guessed she was the leader -- a welcome surprise.

“Thank you for coming. I will keep this brief,” she begins in a rasp. The group stays quiet, her voice carrying without difficulty. “Tila is keeping watch, and I’d rather not bring the troops our way with her staring. First order of business, a moment of quiet for two of our own who have joined the disappeared.”

Impossibly, the clearing descended into deeper silence. Tucking her chin to her chest, eyes downcast, Ojka wondered if the people around her could hear her blink.

“Thank you.” The woman cleared her throat. “Second piece of business. After tonight, we will meet in my establishment. We will no longer meet at the Scorched Bone. Someone was running their mouths a little too close for comfort and I have every reason to believe it has reached the Danes. Their snarling dog has fresh patrols stationed out front. Avoid it if you can help it…”

There are a few more missives, but Ojka only half hears them over the pounding worry in her ears. It couldn’t have been her they were talking about, could it? The man had cornered her and had been entirely inelegant in the way he forced this task into her hand. 

“Now, last piece. Who has a fresh plan of attack?”

Ojka’s hand shot up without her thinking. She felt the way all eyes slipped to her, the new face, the unknown quantity. If she had been anywhere else, she imagined a rumble of whispered gossiping would have broken out in a wake. These rebels remained silent as the grave. The prickling, shivering feeling ran over her body again and she quickly lowered her hand, digging into her pocket and pulling out the crumpled missive.

“I, I have a connection. Inside the, the palace.” She began in a meek, shaking voice she wanted to kick herself for. “They passed me this a few days ago. M-May I?”

The woman on the bucket nodded, motioning her forward. Ojka moved quickly, marvelling at the amount of trust these people had in here. Maybe it was the scarf?

“Hand it here,” The woman said in a quieter tone. Ojka nods, pressing the paper to her chapped, bare hand. 

From here Ojka can smell the smoke and liquor on her, knows the smell from her own parents and too many around the city. When there was nothing left but to work, maybe eat, and wait to die, drinking and smoking helped pass the time.

She stood quietly, eyes trained on the bucket, as the woman read. It could have been a trick of the mind, the anxiety pulsing through her veins, but Ojka could have sworn the woman read the demon’s letter eight times. Eventually, she folds it and passes it to a subordinate standing to her left.

“You are sure this is credible?” The woman asks, grey eyes hard as ice on the Sijlt.

Ojka nods, forcing herself to keep looking. “Yes. Very. He is a friend of the cause, has access to the guards’ idle chatter… He said to see this carried out. If it is, then there will be more.”

“More what, girl?”

“Information, names, plans,” Ojka rattles, making it up as she goes along and praying it passes every test of trust these people could have. “H-he… he told me that he wants to wash the floors in their blood and walk on the dust of their bones to tea.”

The woman cracks a grin at that, chuckling lightly to herself. The laughter flits out to the edges of the clearly, rippling circles after a pebble is dropped into a pond. “Wouldn’t we all?”

“So… So you’ll do it?” Ojka asks, the hope in her voice betraying itself.

“Yes, I think we will,” the woman says. “It’s an opportunity, even if it’s dangerous. Thank you..?”

“Ojka.”

“Yes. Thank you, Ojka. Anyone else?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustrious @museintheclouds on Tumblr was gracious enough to do a portrait of Holland Vosijk in one of his uniforms (frankly, reader, he has many but this one is my favorite.) It's inspired by one worn by Czar Nicholas II in 1915. So, enjoy!
> 
> https://museintheclouds.tumblr.com/post/612223722121773056/holland-vosijk-world-war-i-au-inspired-by-amid


	16. Makt: Early Spring 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! More on the Makt series, and this one accidentally ran so much longer than I thought it would be. But I just kept writing until it felt like a good stopping place. And that took a long while, y'all.
> 
> Case in point, I hope you enjoy!

Ojka barely left her home until after the deed was done. She crossed the threshold exactly twice. Once to grab what little she could from what little was available at the market. A second time to watch the Dane’s aggrandizing military parade. She regretted attending as soon as she stepped out, but she was compelled.

To observe the guards and pray they would remain at their posts.

To feel like she was part of something larger than her small room and dingy cot.

To, perhaps, see the face of the man she was gambling someone else’s life on.

She purposefully left her hair uncovered, knowing he would recognize the color sooner than he would recognize her face. As she and her neighbors knelt with bent heads while the Danes’ horses thundered past, Ojka knew he saw her. Knew the weight of his eyes on her head. But she couldn’t risk glancing up into his face. Too many had been dragged off for that simple defiance, and Ojka didn’t relish seeing the inside of the Dane keep.

When the parade ended and no execution was carried out, Ojka knew the raid had been a success. When she returned from the next meeting to a new letter containing fresh intelligence stuffed under her door, she knew the demon was pleased with her work. The information kept coming and Ojka kept delivering.

The plans continued, each more successful than the one before it.

The Danes -- Athos now alone in London, Astrid at the far of Eastern Front -- remained utterly befuddled. 

December and January passed without any interference. In February, the guard stepped up patrols throughout London, enforcing a curfew on the Kosik in particular. By March, they were conducting staged investigations of the neighborhood, knocking on doors and interrogating citizens with impunity, sometimes with the Danes’ pet at their backs. They routinely came up empty-handed. 

The White Revolutionaries slipped through their fingers like cold water.

And Ojka was one of them now. She was a full member, a real rebel, a true revolutionary. It made her proud. She was hitting back at the true evil still lurking in her country, performing veritable magic tricks before the eyes of the city guard. Orders were mixed up, men ended up in quarters of the city on lies, and her compatriots slipped back into the shadows of alleys and crowds, never recognized.

She felt like she had teeth to bare, claws to sharpen, venom to spit.

Her bent and broken nails from climbing out of the darkness of her childhood to stand at a higher rock bottom now did not hurt anymore. Her scraped elbows and torn knees from carving out an existence in this blasted, forsaken city didn’t sting as badly.

It was worth it.

A lead up to something -- someone -- greater than she knew.

She had expected things to carry on exactly as they had been. The Danes’ pet would continue to pass notes -- now he signed them as the presumptuous “Someday King.” Ojka delivering them to Alma, the rebel leader, so she could give orders and directions for the prescribed missions. Over and over, until the well ran dry or the Danes crumbled under the strain.

She did not expect to find Holland Vosijk, the demon himself, standing at her little, faded blue door.

“May I come in?” He asked, gentle and quiet from under a coat hood. 

“Were you followed?” Ojka whispered without thinking, doing her best not to gape. Not to betray her surprise to whoever might be watching them. Her heart plummeted when he nodded, her lips finally falling open.

Holland waves her off, taking her hand in his. “They believe we’re lovers… So, may I come in?”

Ojka immediately stepped aside for him, slamming the door behind him. He moved from the threshold to her only window and shut the ragged curtains, turning the tiny room a dim grey. Ojka slowly sits on her bed, apprehensive and skittish, as he pulls a foot stool for himself.

“Why are you here?” She murmurs, the hush of close walls and dim light letting her voice carry. She prayed they were not overheard.

“A few reasons,” Holland replies simply. His voice is smooth, easy, calming. He clasps his hands neatly in front of him, elbows perched on his knees.

“But… but not  _ that _ ?”

His green eyes squint then blink. “Oh. No. I already… Never mind, the answer is no, not between us. I’m here with new information and a… a request. One you’ll likely hate.”

“Try me, demon,” Ojka scoffs, crossing her arms and slouching against the wall behind her.

The man smiles at her -- warm, understanding, human, and vaguely handsome -- and takes a deep breath. “You can use my name, Ojka.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Fair enough,” Holland shrugs. “I will be leaving for a trip to the front in a week. It won’t last more than a month, but I think suspending raids until I return would be wise. No sense in risking anyone’s lives until I’m manipulating the guards again.”

“Why?”

“I’m working to pit the twins against one another,” Holland answers in a crisp, efficient tone. “I am their most trusted messenger, I can twist whatever they say to one another. Resentment will make them weaker. Athos is already very nearly there.”

Ojka sighs. She disliked agreeing with him, disliked him being in her home even more so. She would not tell him he was right in his assumptions, wouldn’t dare stroke his ego more than her assistance had likely already had. He could assume from her lack of protest, couldn’t he?

“I’ll take that as your assent,” He sniffs. “Which brings me to the next point you’ll hate. I want you to take me to a meeting--.”

“No.” Ojka cuts him off abruptly. “Absolutely not.”

Holland watches her closely. He goes cold around the eyes, all the humor in his features drying up immediately. One dark eyebrow arches, and Ojka wonders how many people before had seen that same expression before being thrown behind bars. “Why not?”

Her brain does not let her back down. “They don’t need to know who you are. If they know who you are, all your information is now tainted and they will scatter, the movement dying with them. I thought you said you were the smart one.”

Holland scowled at her, clearly displeased by her slight. “I  _ am _ the smart one. I have a plan, but it won’t work if I stay in the shadows. The rebels need to know  _ who _ they’re dealing with.”

“Because you need loyal subjects for the Someday King?” Ojka scoffed.

“Because I need their  _ strength _ ,” Holland snapped, his expression turning dark. “I  _ need _ them. Not because I want their  _ fealty _ or their  _ loyalty _ but because I want their  _ influence _ . Do you understand me? They had  _ power _ in the streets, I alone cannot compete with that.”

Ojka froze, feeling every breath and every swallow. She felt thoroughly scolded. The irritation in his eyes, the stark harshness in his voice, the set of his jaw and shoulders. It made her worry, gave her pause… then told her to see past it. She forced herself to look closer, past the furious mask he wore, peeling back the layers she knew well in herself.

Anger and blanket defense.

Cornered fear and uncertainty.

True apprehension, worry, the scratching need to be who he presented himself as -- brave and strong and fearsome.

And, at the bottom of it all, to her surprise: hope, sorrow, and shame.

Ojka sighed and softened. He didn’t deserve empathy or sympathy, but he could have her pity. Pity wasn’t nearly so kind and it didn’t chastise her from asking questions. Besides, his entry into the revolution was completely at her whim.

“Why do you need to go?”

He scoffs, pride still smarting. “I just told you, you--.”

“No,  _ listen _ .” Ojka insists. “Why do  _ you _ , Holland Vosijk, a man just like anyone of the rest of us. Why do  _ you _ need to meet with the white rebels?”

Holland gaped at her, mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. Eventually his annoyance abates, his defenses falter and fall, and Holland Vosijk falls into devastated silence. He bites his cheek and stares at the rough-hewn stone floor. Ojka can’t help thinking he looked like an overgrown child, sitting through a punishment after being admonished by their mother. 

Ojka leans back and waits.

Holland lets out a steadying breath, the shame she had spotted bubbling to the surface. He avoids her eyes as he speaks. She thinks, idly, if he is afraid. 

“I grew up here. My family died here. My heart remains here. In the Kosik. I… I never intended to be trapped into service, least of all with the Danes. I was. I  _ am _ blackmailed into serving them, and have too easily learned to trade my humanity in favor of my pride.”

“You’re… You want to be one of us again? Is that it?”

“I no longer want to be under their heel. I no longer want to leave my London,  _ our _ London, languishing in darkness.”

“You want to redeem yourself, demon?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Then what does?”

Holland sighs heavily. “No longer being a disappointment to my mother’s memory.”

Ojka opens her mouth, but clamps it shut when Holland waves her off.

“Don’t ask questions you know I won’t answer, Ojka,” He says sullenly, then pulls himself up. The sadness vanishes, replaced by the stony apathy that was his default nature. “Will you let me attend a meeting, Ojka? Now that I have all but bared my soul to you?”

Ojka allowed him to slip away, rolling her eyes at the idea that he had revealed much of anything to her at all. “I’ll see about giving you an in. You will have to come with me and likely brace for some choice words lobbed at your head.”

“I’m capable of ducking. It will be well deserved.”

“I’m sure,” Ojka nods and smirks. “Come back in a few,  _ lover _ , and I’ll tell you what I know.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland did his best to stifle his excitement as he made his quiet way through the Kosik. Ojka had gotten permission to bring him, had referred to him only as her “agent in the fortress.” The moniker had delighted him, but he had kept it to himself. No sense in revealing his whole hand of cards to the young woman. He wouldn’t need her for long anyway, not after he had an assassination plan sorted out. 

He would know more once he had seen Astrid, seen the front again; know how to best twist the knife and sever the ties between the twins.

He arrived at their set meeting place, the Scorched Bone, with no guards on his heels and no suspicious looks. He slipped unseen past the side door he had walked into for the first time months earlier, turning a corner to the back to meet the woman he had met there. Ojka, dressed in boots and a green wool coat, sat perched on a beer barrel next to the tavern’s kitchen window. Her hair was loose, hanging nearly to her shoulders, and she was picking at her nailbeds.

“Evening.” He walked right up to her.

She barely glanced up, regarding him with unimpressed yellow eyes. “You’re early… Eager,  _ kommandant _ ?”

“What gave you that idea?” Holland raised an eyebrow. 

Ojka matches his expression, gesturing up and down with a hand and a knowing glint in her eye. “I could smell it on you from down the street, demon.”

“So what if I am?” Holland shoots back. “I rarely leave those halls without their express orders, and rarely for something so interesting. I’m simply reveling in my good luck.”

“Luck? Is that all it was?” Ojka hops off the barrel, nodding towards an opening into another alley. Holland followed, staying close to her shoulder, keeping his hood up and face downcast. “You’re sure you didn’t grease the wheels of good fortune, demon?”

Holland smirks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Well… The king may have found his wine glass sufficiently full this evening. And I may have done something to tire him out.”

Ojka makes a small, noncommittal noise and says nothing more. She winds aimlessly through streets and alleys, taking them ever deeper into the slums of the Third London. Holland knew exactly where they were, but had no clue where they were headed or what Ojka’s mind was. Whether she was evading the eyes of guards, the notice of her neighbors, or trying to confuse Holland himself, was anyone’s guess.

Holland was just glad to be here, be out, be away.

Soon he would be far away from here, but under the watchful eye of Astrid. It wouldn’t be the same. He could only hope that the right path would make its way clear to him, events would come to pass, and the universe would see it fit for him to feel this way always.

“Stop grinning like an idiot.” Ojka jabs him in the ribs, catching him unawares, then yanks him around a corner onto a narrow side street made of mud. “Remember. We are serious, none of this is a joke, there are lives at stake.”

“Yes, but -- Ojka, hold for a moment,” Holland asks, stopping dead in his tracks. She squints up at him, annoyed. He steps closer, clasping his hands around her shoulders. “Forgive me for being childish, but this is exciting. I’m finally doing  _ something _ , after so many years. It’s… I don’t know what the right word is, but I like the feeling. I don’t want it to go away.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s called having a death-wish, Vosijk. It does dull after a while, so remember it fondly.” She tries to turn away but he holds fast. “What?”

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “Truly. I should have said it before now, but I wanted to before whoever is in there decides to eat me alive.”

Ojka hums, casting her eyes towards a black-painted door with a worn, dirty brass handle. She takes a deep breath and turns back to him. “Well, then. You’re welcome. Don’t… Don’t make me regret this, understand?”

“Understood.”

“Then welcome to the  _ uppreisn _ .”

A child answered the door, swinging it wide and ushering them into a small kitchen -- or the hearth, soup pot, and rough table that counted as one this side of the river. At least twenty people were crammed in the small space, sitting practically on top of one another. It seemed as though they were waiting for them to arrive.

One woman clearly was. She stood at the far end of the table with her hands on her hips, imposing, a force to be reckoned with. She gave Ojka a stiff nod, then leveled her grey gaze on Holland. He found himself paralyzed under the stare, transported immediately to childhood. The same eyes worn by someone who was long gone, someone he’d looked up to and relied on up until the end. There in that kitchen, he was again seven years old, stuck under the irritation of his older brother, Alox.

Ojka pokes him in the ribs and he comes back to himself with a start. “My apologies--.”

“Alma, this is--.”

“I know who it is,” the other woman said. Her voice was not loud but held a gravity that plunged all in earshot into respectful quiet. Her eyes never left him, her face bearing none of the ire Holland felt burning into his skin from the other members in the room. She sniffed, crossed her arms in front of her. “I was expecting Beloc, frankly.”

Holland heard himself gasp, then winced. He knew the boy from the castle -- more specifically from the castle kitchens and the way Athos talked about him from time in the dungeons. He had refused to kneel at the first military parade, had been one of what Londoners started calling the  _ disappeared _ . He had been a spitting, furious, screaming youth, defiant in all the ways Holland was too consumed with getting away from the Danes with his life to be. He’d listened and occasionally watched as the boy -- because he was only a boy, fourteen when he’d been taken -- whipped, kicked, beaten, thrown, sliced and stabbed and bruised until unconscious.

Shame stabbed at him, deep in his chest. For the simple fact that he had not cared until right then. A revolutionary right under his nose for nearly two years. A defiant boy who these people surrounding him cared about, and who’s torture Holland was complicit in.

The woman, Alma, raised both eyebrows in surprise. “You know him, I suppose?”

“Yes, not well, but… yes.” Holland bit his tongue as pairs of eyes burned into him and whispers broke out around him. Hde tightened his shoulders, braced himself for the onslaught of verbal and visible beating. 

He deserved it.

There was no denying it, not when Holland knew to his core that there were some acts he could never repent for. Plenty of people he would never earn salvation from.

Alma finally moves her eyes away from him to Ojka, who had shifted closer to Holland and gripped hard at his shirtsleeve. “So.  _ He’s _ your source?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And you trust him.”

“No.”

“But you trust him enough to bring him into my house.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was my idea. I figured… if he was going to give information and orders,” Ojka said slowly, clearly, fingers tightening as she did. “He should have look into the eyes of the people carrying them out. Make him prove he’s truly committed.”

Alma’s eyes flicker, but her face is otherwise still. She rests both hands flat on the table, leaning forward onto the palms. “You’ve been calling yourself the Someday King, eh?  _ You _ , of all people? Unbelievably…”

“Madame, please--.”

“I’ll let you know when you are free to talk, Holland Vosijk, and you would do well to stay silent, stand to the side for a good long while. You’re good at that, aren’t you?” She lifted her eyes to him, a piercing knowing in their depths. She hums and continues speaking. “I expected not you to be behind all these little missions, but my nephew. The man you, as you said, ‘know but not well’. He was a child when the guards pulled him from my brother’s hands, as you stood by. There’s been no sign or word of him since. I had hoped these missives were from him, letters aiding our cause and proving himself to be alive. Tell me, is he still alive?”

Holland stands stock still, heart pounding and body frozen.

“Answer the question.” She motions with her hand.

“Yes. He’s alive. He… He is not Athos’ target anymore, he works in the kitchens.”

She waves a hand to cut him off. “There is comfort in that, I suppose. If you do not want this cohort to skin you alive and leave you to the starving, then you  _ will _ keep him alive. The only reason I do not throw you to the wolves as we speak is that your information was good. All of it was good, down to the timing.”

“I tried to be thorough.” Holland whispers.

“Well… you accomplished that. Don’t interrupt me again,” Alma sighs and straightens. “I don’t know if Ojka told you, but I am the leader of this outfit. I have been for five years and I will be until I die or the Danes are brought to their knees. I have been in this fight longer than you have, and yet you deign to call yourself the Someday King? Answer me this. Do you want to be king?”

Holland shakes his head. Under her steely gaze, he felt the truth pulled out of him. He hadn’t not planned to be, nor did he intend to be king. He only wanted to be free of the Danes, to see his London rise from ashes, wanted to see in this stark world all the beauty and hope his mother had. He wanted to be the Someday King, the savior from the stories he still clung to. He did not want to sit on the white throne.

Nothing good could come of that.

“No? Tough shit.” Alma laughed. “If you strike the killing blow before we can, you will have to claim it as your own or risk another evil pretender ascending. Am I understood, Someday King?”

“Yes ma’am, perfectly,” Holland answers. “May I say something?”

“You might as well. I’m out of venom for the moment.”

“Less say and more ask, really,” Holland struggles to keep his voice even. “I will be gone for a month. When I return… what can I put into place to further assist the cause?”

“Hmm… A good question. Not so mindless as you look,” Alma muses. “I’ll think on it in your absence. In the meanwhile, you two can take a seat. We will be here for a long time tonight, especially now that we have the bitch’s right hand man with us.”

A laugh forced itself from between Holland’s lips, despite him trying to stifle it. It earns him more eyes, more angry looks, more disdain. He looks only at Alma, lets Ojka squeeze his fingers near to breaking. “Madam --.”

“Alma.”

“Alma. The Twins, they trust me too much. With Astrid at the front, Athos is weak with jealousy.”

“And? Why should I care how much he misses his sister?”

“I, um… I’m trying in a bad way to say, I know plenty. Far more than I should.” He swallows. “Whatever you need to know, ask and I’ll answer. Anything you need.”

A ghost of a smile passes her lips. “Because you want to walk on their bones to tea?”

“And stain the floor with their blood. More than you know.” Holland pulled his hand from Ojka’s, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and laying his forearms flat on the table. It reveals a spidering network of scars. Years of threading needles and twine to repair the damage done, to no avail. “On the pain of allowing you to re-open every single one of these marks, Alma, the Danes will not see another decade on this earth.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” The Alma turns to the rest of the rebels, and the meeting began in earnest. 

And Holland felt as though he were home again.


	17. Makt: May 1917

“No, no, Lethe. Don’t ruffle at me,” Astrid coos at her prized golden eagle. She holds up a squirming mouse, smiling when the bird plucks with a talon and swallows it whole. “There, see? We’ll get you out and flying soon, pretty. Once those useless Arnesian shells stop flying.”

As if on cue, the indicative  _ whizz-bang _ reached her ears. Astrid sighed, annoyed, and her bird’s feathers raised again. At the corner of her vision, Holland flinched.

“Only a few months home in London and you’ve already gone soft?” Astrid grinned wickedly at him, head tilting with the heaviness of her braids. “I thought you would have missed the rush of adrenaline, Holl.”

His forest green eyes shift to her, pale face flat. “It’s not the adrenaline I missed.”

“Oh, so you missed me? How sweet of you…” Astrid tosses another terrified mouse into the air for Lethe before turning completely to Holland. “I missed you too, but I’ll always miss my brother more. How is he?”

“Do you not read his letters?” Holland said with a furrowed brow.

Astrid tilted her head. “What letters?”

The man tilted his head, confused and disbelieving, then shakes it and mutters something about the military’s postal service. “He writes you a letter every few days to give you updates on London, Makt, and the palace… No wonder we hadn’t heard anything from you.”

“No wonder I called you here, Holl.” Astrid counters.

“I’ll arrange a private courrier between you both,” Holland says quietly. “We can’t afford to have all that information falling into the wrong hands, let alone lost and discovered by an enemy.”

“We should have thought of that  _ before _ now, shouldn't we?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“I expect better from you. Now, how is my brother handling London alone?” Astrid asked, an acid note in her tone. She crossed her legs tightly, lips pressed together in a thin line. Holland didn’t waver under her hard stare -- he never did, it was perhaps his most irritating quality. He merely shifted his weight between his feet and inhaled deeply.

“He is doing well, Astrid. Athos is more than capable of wielding power without you, as you are without him. No one disputes his rule and London remains mostly intact, garrison damage aside. He and I,” Holland hesitates for a moment, picking and choosing words. “He and I are working to put down a small group of rebels, but we are succeeding and my intelligence remains good.”

“Due to your intense snooping, I suppose?” Astrid smirks.

Holland shrugs. “Credit where credit is due. But he asked me to tell you he misses you, and would very much like you to come home for a while.”

Astrid laughed, high and clear. “Why should I? I’m having so much fun here! You want me to just leave that, Holl?”

Holland sighs. “No, I don’t. Athos only gave me the point of his missing you with which to win you over, but I have a reason better. In light of the new rebels, the uprising they seem hell-bent on attempting, your return to London would stifle that. I believe they think Athos weak without you.”

“How long would I have to stay in our little backwater for them to be put down?”

“No more than a week.”

Astrid stood, rolling her eyes at Holland’s practicality. It bordered on impertinence, frankly, and she wondered why she and Athos let him live in the first place, why they let him continue to breathe now. He was far too sensible and controlled, not so easily riled or as fun as he once was -- not like when they first caught him. He used to snarl at her and her twin, hiss obscenities, snapping and spitting whenever they got close enough to make him bleed. 

Now he stood by, worn down by Athos’ knife, and followed all their orders.

No fun at all.

She wandered about her round tent, running her hands over the furs and silks scattered over chairs and her bed. Just to fully irritate him. She picked up a letter opener on her small camp desk, pushing the point into her fingertips as she strolled about the perimeter. She made a taunting show of thinking, listening to the rustling of her too-ladylike skirts around the leather of her boots, clinking the metal against her fingernails, biting and pursing her lips. 

When she could feel Holland’s annoyance -- bright and bristling, charging the air around him -- Astrid took a step, then flung the letter opener at him. It flew, whistling as it went, burying itself in the tent wall just to the left of his neck. 

Any closer and it would have done more than graze him.

“Damn bad shot… getting slow,” Astrid muses. Holland had gone rigid, breathing shallow as he tried not to show the fear that had instilled.  _ Yes _ , she thought with a grin _ , that’s better _ . 

“Alright, Holl, you win. I’ll come home, for a month. No more. So Athos calms himself, Lethe can stretch her wings, and you can burn your rebels.”

“You’re very generous, your highness,” Holland says in a tight voice. He lifts a hand, blindly pulling the letter opener from the cloth wall. He holds it out to her at arms length. “Athos will be very happy to see you.”

“Well, I should hope so!” Astrid teases, turning back to her beloved bird. “I am his  _ only sister _ , Holland. Well… the only one  _ living _ , anyhow.”

She catches him, shaking his head in dismay, as he leaves her presence and laughs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland could have fallen to his knees and wept by the time he returned to London, Astrid in tow. The constant shooting frayed his nerves, shattering his sleep more than usual. The Faroan Eastern front was oddly laid out, confusing in its simplicity and dryness. Only a thin line of trenches carved through the dusty red rock of the northern desert, a far cry from the waist-deep mud and illness in the West. Shelling was discarded in favor of true cavalry charges, the sleek Faroan thoroughbreds catapulting full force at the sturdier Maktahn beasts, their riders nimble with their bayonets and swords. 

Astrid’s own bloodthirst had taken him by surprise. Holland knew from unfortunate experience that a monster lurked under her pale facade, but he had never seen it unleashed. Not as it had been on the front lines. The woman was no taller than his shoulder, even in boots, but she flung herself into the malay as if it were a party. She would throw herself onto the back of her favorite horse -- a creamy-white stallion she had named something goulish -- and race out ahead of the cavalry forces. She would ask Holland to hold back his troops while she had her fun in the line of fire, leaping from her horse with a knife in her teeth to personally eviscerate whatever poor soul she pounced upon.

Only then would Holland give the order to the rest of his men, trying to settle his stomach as Astrid would ride towards him, coppery blood smeared on her teeth, through her white hair.

He had never missed London like he had until the moment he rode through the gates closest to the castle. When the dirt changed to cobblestones, he felt weight lift from his shoulders, felt himself sit taller in the saddle as they rode into the palace stables. A month old now, Alma’s words still rang in his head.

_ No? Tough shit. If you strike the killing blow before we can, you will have to claim it as your own or risk another evil pretender ascending...  _

Some day, not too far in the future, he could ride home to a sovereign's welcome. One day, he could ride through a London strong, clean, safe, and cared-for, as it should always have been. The markets would thrive, the Kosik would fill with light, and the guards would no longer patrol with impunity. Soot scrubbed clean from the cobblestones, blood wiped clean from the walls, the castle dungeons walled up and forgotten.

He smiles to himself as he dismounts, handing the reins to a groom -- another child snatched from the streets and put into service. Athos had come to meet them, his attention narrowing to Astrid alone as he pulled her into a fierce embrace. If he didn’t know the deep wells of cruelty they harbored in them, Holland would have thought the image sweet. Instead, he found himself bracing for the next month of closer watch, how Astrid being home would styme his plans set into motion. He had not expected her to agree to come home, and was resolved to work harder to force them apart.

_ Am I understood, Someday King? _

Alma’s voice catches him by surprise and the promise he made a month prior. He catches the young groom by the arm before he can walk off. The boy jumps, eyes widening as Holland stares at him. 

“Where is Beloc?”

“The, the k-kitchens, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The boy exhales sharply, rushing off with his head down when Holland releases him. Holland makes a beeline for the kitchen, moving quickly and quietly through the servants’ halls. The twins would be occupied with themselves for a good long while, catching up and discussing new ways to pull London down to the studs. They would only start to miss him when the drinking started.

Holland turned a corner then into a doorway into the kitchens. The scattered servants, some mindless some just fearful, looked up in surprise and terror. He scanned the room without acknowledging them, moving swiftly to the back of the room where Beloc -- all 5’9” lanky limbs and dark hair of him -- stood washing dishes. The one that was in his hands shattered as Holland grabbed his shirt, tugging then dragging a struggling, stuttering Beloc into the corridor.

“Let go, let go, let go! What did I do, what did I-!” His voice cuts off with a choke as Holland slams him back into the wall. He winces as he does it, but there were others in the hall. He couldn’t risk someone seeing kindness and ratting him out to the Danes.

“Be quiet and listen if you know what’s good for you,” Holland hisses, then moves in closer and relaxes his voice into something softer. “Were you a rebel before they took you?”

“What?”

“Answer me.”

“Yes. Why?”

“And do you have an aunt, Alma Maatev?”

“Aunt—… are you going to hurt her?” Beloc whispers, stricken. He tenses under Holland’s grasp. “P-Please don’t hurt—.”

“I’m not going to hurt her, Beloc, I’ve  _ met _ her,” Holland whispers quietly. “All those raids, they were my doing. I intend to bring the rebellion into this palace and you will help me do it. Say yes if you agree.”

Beloc breathes erratically, stunned and terror-stricken. He starts to shiver, other servants passing by with heads bowed and eyes averted. After a few minutes, he finds his voice again. “What… what if I s-say no?”

“Then I will ship you off to the nearest front so you can’t reveal my plan.” Holland whispers. “I will not hurt you. I will not get you killed… And, you’ll be out of Athos’ sight more than in it.”

“You can do that?” Beloc breathes. “H-He won’t touch me?”

“Not if I can help it. I can promise you that. Now, yes or no?”

“Yes. Okay? Yes.”

Holland releases his hold on the boy and steps away, still glaring at him. “Follow me. No questions. Understand?”

Beloc nods frantically, falling into step behind Holland as they walk up stairs and through more hallways to Holland’s rooms. Athos and Astrid’s laughter carries through the corridors from the Twins’ wing of the palace. Holland yanks open the door and shoves Beloc inside. He slams and locks the door, nearly tripping over the baggage the mindless had already brought up for him. He removes his coat and hat, laying them over the back of a chair, and doing his best to calm himself. The pattern of blank, blind, simply cruelty was an easy one for him to fall into, and it deepens his self-loathing when he did.

He tucks his head, taking a deep breath before straightening and turning to the baffled, worried young man at the door.

“How old are you?” Holland asked in an easier tone. It only seemed to confuse Beloc more, the sudden switch from fury to commonplace small talk. 

“Sixteen,” Beloc hesitates. “Almost seventeen.”

Holland continues moving about the room, unpacking his bags and pulling things from their hiding spots. “Too young… Your aunt, she’s the leader? That’s how you became involved?”

“Yes. How did you--.”

“I’ll answer your questions later, Beloc. For now you answer mine.” Holland holds up a hand. He leans against his bed frame, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Do you know a young woman named Ojka?”

Beloc’s brow furrowed. “No. Who’s that?”

“She’s a dancer in the Kosik and my contact with your aunt. A matter of curiosity. Next question: can you read or write?”

Beloc’s expression turns sheepish, then gains back a bit of it’s defiance. “I can write. Reading might be… difficult.”

“Three years without anything to read,” Holland muses to himself, reaching for a slim notebook. The first one he had started penning in 1914, when the guards had first raised the alarm about the White Revolution to him. He held it out for Beloc. “Here. Start with this. It does not leave this room with you and you will not speak of it to anyone. Now, tell me, are there anyone else in the palace you trust?”

“Trust how?”

“Trust with your life, Beloc.”

“No… Well, one person,” Beloc flips through the notebook, then pauses. “Astrid’s little pet, Nasi. I would trust her, but she’s only six. She’s too young.”

Holland nods, then gestures to the young man. “Alright. I’m finished with my questions. You may now ask yours.”

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Beloc blurts out.

“Because you’re useful to me.” Holland answers just as quickly. “Next.”

“Why haven’t you killed my aunt or her followers yet?”

“Because they are useful to me. And your aunt reminds me of someone I used to know. Next.”

“I… I don’t understand.” Beloc sighs. “What you’re doing, why you care. You. You haven’t given a shit about anything in years.”

Holland sighs. “I haven’t. So trust that I do care, and I care quite a lot now.”

“What will I be doing?”

“Whatever I tell you do, Beloc.”


	18. Makt: Summer 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this chapter was unexpected. Just sort of happened, so here goes nothing.  
> The Revolution begins en masse and in earnest. Big things are yet to come.
> 
> TW: discussion of torture (ala Astrid's "punishments")

Astrid stayed for not one month but three. She and Athos were enjoying one another’s company -- their terrible minds and wicked action. Astrid declared she would have a parade in her honor, ostensibly to honor her regiment still back at the front before she returned to them, but Holland knew better listening to her order. Athos couldn’t have agreed more and Holland’s attention was totally diverted from constructing missions to party planning. As Beloc poured over scraps of information and notebooks, Holland planned a marching route, organized guard posts, tried and failed repeatedly to get a message to Ojka.

Frustrated, he eventually had to make up an excuse, a lie delivered straight to Athos’ and Astrid’s faces (it was always easy), to rush out into the city to find the red-haired dancer. Over the weeks, Astrid had grown increasingly frustrated with Holland’s inability to prove the existence of a revolution let alone that there were any rebels he was seeking to catch. In exchange for the errand, Astrid demanded punishment.

For “getting my hopes up.”

Mere hours later, Holland shivered and ached as he quickly through the city. He knew there were guards on his heels -- Astrid would not be giving him the leniency of moving about London unsupervised, saying Athos had let it go on too long. He had lost the privilege as swiftly as he had lost the skin on his back. He’d forgotten how hard Astrid could lay a whip into him. It had been years since either twin had cause to punish him at all.

He strode up to Ojka’s little blue door, a reckless move knowing that Astrid could compel any of his watchers to reveal all. He was risking the young woman’s freedom, perhaps her life. He knocked on the door and, following an impulse, pulled the young woman into a crushing kiss the second she appeared in front of him.

Holland felt her slight body seize at the touch, yielding only when Holland pushed her backwards inside. She broke the kiss as soon as the front door slammed, pushing Holland back into the wood.

“What the hell is  _ wrong with you _ ?”

Holland winces, sucking in a pained breath as his wounds crackle, sting, and reopen. “Sorry, s-sorry. I was followed, I h-had to.”

“Play into the mythology that I would ever let you fuck me?” Ojka says in a rush, all but running to shut the curtains. They were new, or the fabric was. More whole and clean than the last time he was there.

“Right, right, sorry…” Holland tries to push himself upright, but the pain blooms, making his eyes water, his arm shaking. 

Ojka moves to him, concern lacing her features. “What did they do to you?”

Holland barks a laugh, hating how obvious the source was. “Nothing they --  _ ah! _ ... Nothing new. Just a, a whipping.”

“Nothing new… Why?”

“Not living up to her ex-ex… expectations.”

“Come here.” Ojka moves his hands to her shoulders then positions her own carefully, so as not to inflict any more pain. She leads him over to her bed, gently helping him down and pushing him onto his stomach. She drops to her knees, pulling a battered leather bag from under the bed, dropping it onto a nearby footstool. Then she stands and locks the door.

“Why?” Holland croaks, angling his head to watch him.

“Why what, Vosijk?”

“Why are you h-helping me?”

Ojka snickers to herself, dropping back down onto the floors. Her hawk-like eyes glitter merrily. “Consider it a favor and don’t read too deeply into it.”

“You like having true proof of my suffering?” Holland watches her undo the makeshift aid kit, piling salves, bandages, an errant bottle of antiseptic something, and loose wads of cotton on the stool. There were so many shortages in the city because of the war effort, Holland honestly couldn’t tell how she had come by all of it, how long she had had it, how much it had cost her.

Ojka shakes her head. “I like having proof that you are, in fact, a human being. Hold still. I’ve got to get all this off of you.”

Holland does his best, trying to remain as still as possible and help her remove first his coat, then his shirt without adding to the pain. He winces and flinches, sometimes gasping as his soaked, sticking shirt pulled at the gashes, tugging at the gaping edges and spilling more blood. He sighed in audible relief when the fabric freed itself from his arms. He yelps when something cold swipes over his sliced, raw skin.

“Oh, not so tough are we?” Ojka mumbles. “Here I thought you were made of stone, steel, invincible, but no. Just a man, just human, just like me…” The thin mattress dips as she sits on the edge. “Alright, Holland, you’re going to want to brace. This will sting, but it will keep the infection out.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a street dancer. My feet are not soft or delicate, and I am very familiar with cuts and scrapes.”

“But not these.”

“Not on myself, Holland.” Ojka pats his shoulder. “Salve now. Talk later.”

Holland bit his tongue and squeezed his eyes shut. The salve indeed stung as her quick fingers smeared it over the wounds covering the whole of his back. Holland had surrendered to the grey haze of pain and shock during his punishment. He hadn’t registered the extent of the damage.

“My gods, they shredded you,” Ojka breathes, reaching for a bandage roll.

“I got off easy. This is  _ nothing _ …” Holland answers through gritted teeth. “You should see what they did to me when they first came to power, what they do to people  _ now _ .”

Ojka sighs heavily. “I would rather not. Not even if I were in your somewhat less unfortunate position. I hope I never see it.”

“Never say never.”

“Is that why you’re here, Holland?”

“Why are you calling me  _ Holland _ ? Whatever happened to  _ demon _ or  _ kommandant? _ ”

“Or  _ you utter bastard _ .” Ojka nudged him up onto his elbows so she could wrap the bandages around his middle. “Answer me and I’ll answer you.”

Holland huffs. “Fine. I don’t have any new information, but I wouldn’t have you thinking I had abandoned you. They have me planning a military parade--.”

“Of course they do. And I suppose that bitch had you followed here, since the whipping wasn’t nearly enough.” Ojka secured and cut the bandage. “You can lay down now.”

“Thank you, Ojka. And yes, she did. I don’t think Athos was particularly happy about it and I hope to exploit it soon.”

“Make him wish she’d just go back to the front.”

“Precisely.” Holland sighed and rolled delicately on to his back. “Now you.”

A thin eyebrow raised. “Oh. Because I feel like it. I figured you’ve earned it by now.”

Holland cracks a wry grin. “I’ve earned my given name, have I? Does that mean I’ve earned your trust?”

“It means no such thing, demon.” Ojka smirks, hands resting in her lap. “Did you find Alma’s nephew? She’s asked since you’ve been back.”

“Yes, the day I arrived home. He’s agreed to help me from the inside.”

“Did you persuade him the same way you persuaded me?” Ojka teased. 

“I. Yes. I didn’t intend to but--.”

“Others were watching.” Ojka breathes. “Someone is always watching, aren’t they?”

“Especially inside the fortress. Sometimes I wonder if the walls collect secrets and tell them to the twins.” Holland stares past her, up into the low ceiling. “They seemed to know everything in the beginning, and would use it against me… Athos once told me that I suffered beautifully.”

Ojka’s nose curls. “That’s vile.”

“It’s the truth,” Holland scoffs, smiling bitterly. He prods the tip of her nose with his finger. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe because he liked her bewildered smile, or because he needed a distraction from the awful thing he had just said. 

She pushes his hand away with a good-natured eye roll. “So I should tell Alma that her nephew is safe with you and you won’t be coming to any meetings for a while yet,” Ojka rattles off in a deceptively cheerful tone.

“Yes, at least until their vanity parade two weeks from now,” Holland says. “I didn’t come empty-handed though.”

“No you came here to give me a kiss and bleed through your shirt on my bed.” Ojka reaches for his coat. “In here I suppose?”

Holland nods, resting his hands on his stomach as she digs through the pockets. She finds nothing and glares at him. Holland only finds himself grinning at her. “Now I reveal another one of my secrets. Left sleeve, hole in the lining. It’s pinned just inside.”

Ojka shakes her head as she maneuvers the heavy wool in her lap. Her nimble fingers soon find her target extracting a neatly folded square of paper. She holds it up between two fingers before popping it open and reading. Holland watches as she reads over it once, twice, four times. Her brow furrowed with time. She paused on her fifth read, yellow eyes burning a hole through him.

“You’re serious?” She asks carefully.

“Deadly.” Holland matches her tone. “His defenses will be down, I’ll do my best to keep it that way. Think you can manage it?”

“We should be able to, but… Holland, this is riskier than all the others combined.” Ojka sets the letter down on her lap, the paper crinkling. “How sure are you that we won’t all be killed?”

Holland closes his eyes. “In all honesty, I’m not. There is nothing in their… well, what passes for a conscience for the Danes, to stop them from massacring the city. Once Astrid is back at the front and I’ve returned from escorting her, Athos will be alone--.”

“No, he will be under your influence.”

“I was getting to that, but yes, fine. I will be his most trusted, his  _ only _ advisor. I can keep working the wedge between them, keep his frustration in check, and implement Alma’s orders on the fortress.”

Ojka laughs bitterly. “ _ You _ ?  _ Taking  _ orders? I suppose I’ll be your messenger for that too?”

“Yes, to the kitchens or stables. Received by Beloc to come directly to me.” Holland opens his eyes and rests his hand on top of her. “I believe this will wear him down, bring him to his wits end.”

“Then what? For that matter, what if it doesn’t work?” Ojka huffs, ignoring his touch.

“If Alma doesn’t think it will work, then I’ll defer to her judgement. She knows the city’s mind better than I do, and I can twist anything to work within the palace,” Holland says patiently. “If it works, then we will be in the best position to bring the twins down. If it doesn’t work… then we’ll storm the palace and kill Athos outright. Before Astrid can return.”

“And then we kill her.”

“And then we kill her.”

Ojka chews her lip, eyes cast towards the place where the floor met the wall. She seemed lost in thought, overtaken by a thousand and one possibilities, outcomes, triumphs, and disasters. Holland waited, counting the minutes until he realized the sun was setting and he needed to be getting back before too many questions were asked. His sitting up jostled her from her thoughts.

He laid a hand on her shoulder before she got up. “I can see myself out. Stay out of sight and lock the door behind me. I’ll make sure this goes smoothly.”

“Should we test the kitchen plan, just so no one balks at it?” Ojka whispers, handing him his bloody shirt and coat.

“Yes. Wait three days, then come at noon. I’ll make sure Beloc is waiting.”

“I’ll write you a love note.”

“I hope you do,” Holland chuckles. The two of them fall silent as Ojka helps him dress, then supports him as he stands. He gives her a shoulder a squeeze as he slips through the door, expecting it to shut immediately behind him.

Instead, he feels his hand jerked back as her fingers snag the cuff of his coat. He pauses on the street, staring back into the wide eyes of a girl who looked young and scared for the first time since he had known her. 

“ _ On vis och, _ ” She whispers, then releases his arm. She blows him a kiss with a subtle wink and shuts the door. Holland waits until the lock clicks into place, dumbfounded, then begins the long walk to the castle watching the sky turn red.

“ _ On vis och _ .”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On June 23, 1917 -- coincidentally, the day Holland Vosijk returned from escorting Czar Astrid Dane back to the Eastern Front -- the citizens of the Third London went on strike. It started in the Yanev, with the breweries, moving swiftly through the textile mills of the Stura and the munitions factories in the Plosu. When it reached the Kosik, it exploded into an inferno. 

Hundreds of people, walking off lines and looms, gathering at the edge of the Silver Wood.

They demanded higher wages, better food, and an end to the curfew. 

They would not be moved, not even by guards.

Athos Dane, Grand Prince of London and co-Czar of Makt, stormed around the palace throne room. Every member of the palace staff had fled his presence, leaving only him, his fury, and the grey shade of his knight, Holland Vosijk. He wanted to send the city guard to run them through, drag them by their collars and hair back to their jobs. Astrid always said they needed to rule with an iron fist.

But it was the entire city. Up and walked off the job, refusing to be satisfied with the way things were.

“We’re generous, aren’t we?” Athos ranted as he paced back and forth across the white flagstone floor. “They  _ have _ jobs, food, and homes. Do they want to just throw that all away? Who are  _ they _ to say it isn’t  _ enough _ , we give them  _ enough _ …”

Holland watched him, standing with feet shoulder-width apart, arms held tightly behind his back. Thick scabs and knitting skin that had replaced the open wounds itched horrifically, but he grit his teeth and kept still. Watching Athos, distressed, talk himself in and out of poor plans. In his breast pocket was the first of Alma Maatev’s orders, along with a smaller note from Ojka Dimov. Beloc had slipped them into his hand as he was walking to the throne room, Athos having demanded his presence as he spiralled. 

“We let them  _ live  _ so long as they treat us with respect, so I fail to see  _ what they are protesting about _ !” Athos comes to a dead stop in front of his sister’s empty throne. He breathes out harshly, then turns cold, furious pale eyes on Holland. “Why can’t I just have them rounded up and shot?”

Holland stared back, apathetic and empty-looking. “Then who would you rule over?”

“The countryside!” Athos spits.

Holland arches an eyebrow.

“Oh  _ what now _ ?” Athos hisses, not angry with Holland but with the current predicament. Astrid would have had an answer, a decisive way to put this strike down. But she was gone back to the front. Any word Athos sent wouldn’t get there for a week yet, and then where would they be? Besides, her visit had made it clear she thought him fairly incapable of ruling alone. She had walked over him at every opportunity, and Athos had let her because he missed his sister badly.

He didn’t miss her at all now.

He wouldn’t dare send word, or she would return and see him incompetent.

Athos would not have  _ that _ .

“Your highness,” Holland began, his voice a low rumble that Athos loved. “If I may?”

“ _ Please _ .” Athos sighs, dropping into his throne. He flings a leg over one of the arms, pinching the bridge of his nose. He feels a headache coming on, knows that Holland’s voice will settle his nerves. He always liked the man’s voice; it was half the reason why Athos decided to keep him. 

All those questionable letters aside…

“They are asking for food, better pay, and a later curfew. They did not give particulars,” Holland began, his boots sounding softly on the stone as he came to stand in front of Athos. “What say we push curfew an hour later and increase rations for the next month. Give them these two things and they might back down on the pay increase.”

“And why should I do that, Holland?” Athos drawls, annoyed. “What has London done that should make me so inclined to do this for them?”

“Well, don’t do it immediately. Let the city come to a stand still. Let them stay in the Silver Wood, but keep them hemmed in by the guards,” Holland continues, by passing the actual question. “Let them get exhausted, cold, and hungry. Then offer them food. Wait another day and add the curfew. Two out of three needs met, you will look benevolent…”

The way his voice trails off makes Athos squint at him. He sits up, leaning forward onto his knees, and watches the man’s features carefully. “Finish the sentence, Holland.”

The dark-haired man sighs. “You will look benevolent… more benevolent than Astrid. The military parade may have sparked this. This will make you stronger, better in their eyes. That’s what I was going to say, I apologize if I--.”

Athos raises a hand and Holland cuts off. It isn’t a bad idea, considering that Athos is more inclined to murder the protestors than benefit them. Athos was always the younger brother, always second best and second in command. Astrid had entrusted the dual throne to him so she could have her adventure, and Athos wouldn’t deny the hot flash of jealousy he had felt when she lavished him with war stories. She would always be the leader, the strong one according to her own self-image. She was already stylizing herself at the Empress of All Worlds, in anticipation of Makt’s winning the war. She had said nothing to Athos of him being an emperor.

Athos had his sister’s love, but he did not have her respect.

Holland had presented him with the best opportunity Athos had to earn the respect of Londoners.

“Do it,” Athos orders. “I trust you to handle this yourself, on my command. Anything beyond what you have just discussed and you will consult me yourself. Am I understood, Holland?”

“Completely, your highness.” Holland bows slightly at the waist, his jaw tightening as his bandages shifted against the itching scabs. 

Athos tilts his head, studying the man’s stiff movements and tight jaw. The flare of pain, frustration sitting only in his green eyes. He had liked those green eyes too -- the way they watered and widened in the beginning, the way they had gone dull and placid over the years of being Athos’ canvas.

Giving Holland a whipping had been Astrid’s idea. Not his.

Athos didn’t particularly like the way Astrid treated his masterwork, his favorite toy. 

“Holland.” Athos stands and steps off the thrones’ dias. “Now that this is solved, you will come with me to my rooms. I’d like to take a look at how those cuts of yours are healing.”

Holland doesn’t flinch at the suggestion. “Yes, Athos. Thank you, Athos.” Athos smiles and sets off walking, hearing Holland fall into step behind him.  _ I am the Grand Prince of London, Czar of the Siljt and Silver Wood.  _ He thinks with an evil glimmer in his eye, a wicked curve of his smile.  _ The city is my domain, and this country will be too. If Astrid is going to be an empress then I will damn well be an emperor. And Holland my champion _ . 


	19. Makt: Late September 1917, Eastern Front

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Safe, sane, and consensual sex. Stand by for emotions, lots and lots of emotions.  
> Translations for Maktahn and Arnesian in the end notes. Thank you!

Holland heard Kell before he saw him. 

He had managed to wriggle out of Astrid’s sight for the night, was relishing the breathing room and the warm whiskey in the bar. They were just over the Faroan border into Makt, where the earth turned arid and dusty, the natural paleness of Makt and Vesk tanned and darkened. Holland stuck out, his dark hair his only saving grace. Kell, pale and freckled, clear blue eyes and auburn hair. No such luck.

So Holland has no trouble recognizing him when a hand clamps down on his shoulder. 

Holland spins, expecting a member of his own army looking for a fight. Instead he finds himself under blue eyes shaken to their core. Blue eyes he recognizes from a year gone by. Worse for wear, older, haggard and desperate. And Holland can only stare.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Kell says in a strangled voice. 

“You-.”

“Please. _Please_ let me buy you a drink,” Kell insists, voice cracking. “And. And come back to my room with me.”

Holland glances around them, pushing up from the bar and discreetly resting a hand on Kell’s hip. “Buy the whole bottle and come to mine.”

Their movements up to the small rented room were not subtle. Kell had fisted his hand in the front of Holland’s shirt, his uniform coat already unbuttoned. He had practically dragged the man up the stairs, down the creaky upstairs hallway, tugging him roughly into the room. Kell pushes the man up against the door, pressing his mouth hard to his. Holland leans into it, letting the younger man have his way for a moment or two. He supposed he needed it, the sadness in his eyes, the nerves Holland can feel vibrating in his skin.

A minute more and he breaks the kiss, holding up the bottle of wine. “Should we?”

“Yes,” Kell breathes. “I need one, or two.”

Holland had brought two glasses with them, but Kell ignores them entirely. He uncorks the bottle while it’s still in Holland’s hand and knocks back a mouthful, then two. He lets Holland take it back, walking backwards to flop onto the bed. His uniform is cleaner than it was a year ago, his hair shorter, his frame thinner. He winces as his injured shoulder — the left, Holland remembers — connects with the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Kell gasps, coughing around the burn of the booze. “It’s… I shouldn’t have—.”

“I’m glad you found me,” Holland interrupts. He strides forward, dropping the bottle on a stool and kicking Kell’s long legs apart to stand between them. “I’ll be going back to the front tomorrow, then home next week.”

“Lucky thing,” The redhead’s eyes rake over him, heading towards waist level. Some of the decimation in his eyes evaporates, replaced by an infectious hunger. “Are you going to… lay down?”

“Would you like me to, blue eyes?” Holland smirks.

“Well, it is _your_ _bed…_ major.” Kell drops his voice, low and honeyed. 

“Had anything in mind?”

Kell shrugs. “You, me, that bottle, my mouth… elsewhere. You?”

“How could I refuse?” Holland muses, diving in.

Kell very quickly takes control of the kiss, Holland grinning through the whole thing. He lets his hands run over Kell’s chest and waist, fingers quickly undoing the buttons and yanking up the shirt.

Kell pulls away, fixing Holland with a serious stare. The one he was best known at home for, according to the nickname Holland now knew; one that seemed to come far more easily than any other expression. Holland wouldn’t deny the way heat blossomed and curled in his stomach, slithering and knotting lower in his abdomen as he watched the man’s face flush pink as he spoke in a low, even voice.

“I’ve had a shit month, a shit year. I want your mouth between my legs, me on my back under you, you as well. Before we part ways again.”

Holland smirks, a hand resting in the center of Kell’s chest, pushing him backwards. “Indeed. I missed you, blue eyes.“

Then Kell crumbles, the sorrow bursting to full life once more in his eyes, in the curve of his lips. “I, I missed you too. You have no idea.”

Holland leans back over him, knee dipping the mattress between Kell’s legs. He brushes the soft wave of red hair away from his eyes. He takes care to slow down the mad rush from before, to push Kell further up the bed, gently undoing the rest of his buttons, and pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. 

Forehead, temples, nose, the crease between his eyes.

Cheek, jaw, neck, the hollow of his throat, the joint of his shoulder. 

Kell whines under him. “That’s nice. Don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry, captain,” Holland says, grinning into Kell’s neck. “I won’t until you tell me.”

Holland works himself lower, sliding to his knees at the side of the bed and pulling Kell forward by his trousers. Kell pushes up onto his elbows, watching through strands of red hair as Holland undoes the buttons of his pants, a silly sort of smile gracing his lips. Holland relaxed, slowing his movements and basking in the simple affection. The warmth of someone else’s sun on his face, his skin that he had been so long deprived of.

Kell sits up as soon as Holland swallows him down, his hand immediately threading into his black hair. Holland’s forehead presses against his stomach, feeling the change in the way Kell breathes. Feeling Kell’s every moan and sigh and hitch in his breath as much as he can hear them.

Holland hums around him, relaxing his throat to take him in further. He slides his hands over Kell’s thighs and hips. He squeezes, relishing the small jerks up into his mouth before he grips tighter. He pulls back, dragging the tip of his tongue along as he goes.

“Ah!” Kell gasps, hip bones pushing against Holland’s palms. “Good, good, that’s r-really good.”

Holland just hums again, sucking at the tip before popping all the way off. He grins widely at Kell’s frustrated groan. “How would you like this to end, blue-eyes?”

“How do I..?” Kell pants, running fingers through Holland’s hair and down over his cheekbones. The sadness is gone again, replaced by delirious hunger. “C-Can I…I want a few times, if that’s alright?”

“Yes, as many as we can manage,” Holland breathes, keeping his fingers running over Kell’s length, enjoying the pinching frustration in his expression.

“C-Could you, could we keep going. I need, I’m going to need you. Soon, I won’t last, been too long.”

Holland nods and pulls back up. He kneels, adjusting as he runs his palms over Kell’s thighs, massaging and heating the skin before he begins to lick and suck at the man’s cock. Nosing his way along Kell’s leg, nipping at the crook of his hip, licking at his balls and the base of his cock, the red hair tickling his nose.

“H-Holland, H-Holl, I…Ah!” Kell’s hips move on their own now, the man finally having collapsed onto his back again. The little noises come unrestrained from his throat, tripping lightly off his tongue and making Holland’s mouth water. 

Holland suppresses a grin and works Kell’s trousers down to his knees, tucking his left hand under the man. He cups and rolls his balls, slides his fingernails on the insides and undersides of his thighs; slowly pressing palms up under his hips, over the rise of his ass, and rubbing over his opening.

He pays special attention to every vocalization, every change in tone and timbre. Every tightening muscle, fresh expletive, and twitch of Kell’s nerves. 

“Oh _sanct_ ,” Kell groans to the ceiling. “I needed this… I needed this… I needed _you_.”

Holland pulls all the way away, enjoying Kell’s feeble protests of _no, come back, not done yet_. “Oil, captain?”

“It’s your room, major.” 

“But it’s your medic’s kit,” Holland chuckled. “May I–?”

“Use it, yes use it!”

Holland doesn’t need telling twice. He finds the little bottle, coating his fingers completely before sliding them back into Kell. His thighs burn keeping him upright, weakening at Kell’s whimpers and murmurs, his knees aching and a newfound heaviness between his legs. His hips push forward on their own, pushing his mouth farther down. He pushes his fingers in deeper, farther, as deeply into Kell as they can go. One of his hands leaves Kell, stroking himself through his clothes, jerking his hips forward, pushing them back. He feels like he's on strings -- pushed and pulled between Kell and his own body.

Kell is open enough now to stuff two fingers in, brushing at the spot deep inside the prince until Kell's brain can't form words any more. He manages a frail, “Fuck me.”

Holland pulls off, gasping and shuddering at the sudden loss, the new direction. He unlaces Kell’s boots, strips him of his trousers and underwear. He stands on wobbly, palm pressing into the mattress to keep his balance long enough for him to shed his own clothes and shoes. He collapses on top of Kell, who pushes himself back up onto the bed to give Holland more room. Holland strips Kell’s shirt from him, leaving them both stark naked. 

Laid bare and trembling in the middle of the war.

“You still want to?” Kell murmurs.

“Yeah, just… Catching my breath.”

“I should do that too,” Kell sighs. He slides his legs up Holland’s sides, wrapping them loosely about the man’s waist. He stares up at Holland, blue eyes dreamy, blissful, perfectly content. Holland wonders if he looks half as wonderful to the young man. He wonders why Kell sought him, a scarred and exhausted man much older than him, out at all.

“Ready?” He breathes, using a hand to position himself.

Kell bit his lip. “More than.”

Holland works himself in slowly, watching Kell's face enamored. It takes a minute before he's pressed into the hilt. He curls over Kell, kissing every part of the young man's body he can reach.

" _Þú ert fallegur_."

Kell laughs, breathless. “What does that mean?”

“Beautiful. You look beautiful.” Holland slides himself most of the way out, then back in. He and Kell moan in unison, those long legs wrapped around his waist tightening unbearably. Holland could hardly push himself forward, make himself keep moving, so consumed by the tight heat around him.

“Speed up would you?” Kell groans, pulling his legs higher up on Holland’s waist. He tightens the muscles of his thighs, holding the man deeper in him. His fingers are tangled in the sheets, in his hair, frustration clearly mounting.

Holland laughs, the sound more panting than humor. He knew he would admit later that he had nearly forgotten about the young Arnesian, the burn-bright redhead he had regretted leaving the morning after a year ago, the serious young man he now knew was a prince. 

“Gladly,” He huffs, lifting Kell’s hips and waist higher, breath hitching at the newfound deepness. “H-hold, hold t-tighter.”

Kell, even in his haze, listens. “Y-Yes, major.”

His heels press into the small of Holland’s back, pulling Holland forward onto his hands. He arches, angling to recapture Holland’s lips, which he doesn’t manage to do before Holland closes the gap for him. Holland stills his thrusts, holding their pleasure in frustrating stasis so he can indulge in the warm, soft, slow slide of his lips with Kell’s. 

This. 

This he had missed. Whether he remembered until two hours ago or not, Holland Vosijk had missed the redheaded prince of Arnes. And he would miss him totally when they parted again.

Desperately if his plan did not work exactly.

Holland takes his time, moving as slowly as he can make himself, building Kell back up, thrusting with a level of self-control he can barely maintain. He's tight and hot, moving against him with abandon.

Holland moves him, pulling Kell to sitting, changing the angle he's at inside of him. Kell’s back arches, the young man held in place only by Holland’s hands flat against the planes of his back.

" _Sanct_ ," Kell groans. "Make me come, _please_."

“Since you asked so nicely, captain.” Holland buries his face into Kell’s neck, fighting back a laugh and thrusting every other word. Just to hear the little noises in Kell’s throat.

“Come _on_ ,” Kell whines, tightening his legs again.

Holland bites Kell’s neck, grinning at the soft yelp. “Patience. You are so needy today.”

“Oh, I— _ah_!”

Holland adjusts again, then starts moving again. He changes pace, alternating between slow and deep, quick and shallow, brushing against the spot deep inside the redhead, feeling him unraveling thread by thread.

Kell gasps and shakes, growing louder. Holland reaches up, tangling his fingers in Kell’s soft, clean hair. Holland’s mouth finds Kell’s again, kissing him slowly as he starts thrusting faster and deeper. He loses control of his faculties, sliding in and out of lucidity in the best way. He wondered if this meant something to Kell, wondered if closing the gap and loving the young man for these short times would give them both what they needed. Would it be the reason he could survive a few months, another year? 

Would it be his last reward before vanishing from history?

“I’m gonna, _sanct_ I’m gonna… _an esto, an esto,_ ” Kell groans to the ceiling.

Holland's only response is his own ragged moan, his self control shattering as Kell tightens impossibly around him, his hands buried still in the wavy red hair. Two deep thrusts, as far into the prince as Holland can go, buried to the hilt and feeling every inch. It was enough to send Kell over the edge, climax vibrating through his whole body as he twisted against Holland’s chest, fingers tangling and pulling on black strands.

Holland stifled his own moan with a kiss, thrusting as Kell came, pushing himself to his own orgasm. Body shuddering, he spent himself inside of him, layering kisses down Kell's neck and shoulder, sucking hard at the joint in his neck, scraping teeth over the sensitive scar tissue. Kell twists at the sudden overstimulation, the headboard of the small bed rattling with every single movement.

Finally, Holland's firm thrusts turned slow, shaking. He smiles into Kell's neck, kissing back up to his mouth, finding Kell's plush lips already open, waiting. The redhead turns his head to catch Holland's mouth with his eyes hazy with pleasure.

Holland collapses down on top of the redhead, breath hot against his neck. All the feeling had gone out of his limbs, leaving him numb and buzzing and heavy all over. Kell’s legs relax and he shifts under Holland’s weight. His hands smooth over his waist, ribs, the flat planes of his back, the rise of his shoulder blades. They don’t settle in any one place, moving continuously, slow and warm.

He never mentions the scars, the thick scabs.

Holland feels sleep slipping over him and he does his best to shake it off. He didn’t want to fall asleep just yet, didn’t want to risk the man slipping out of his grasp before he woke back up. He wanted them to stay there, locked together for as many hours as possible.

The sentimentality of the thought struck him, a slap of surprise across his face.

He hadn’t felt that particular, romantic way about anyone. Not in seven years, perhaps for far longer. The last person who felt the love Holland was, deep down, very capable of was many years dead and gone. Gone for so long he no longer quite remembers the sound of her voice, the set of her hair, the glint of her eyes. But he remembered Kell, however dimly, after a year. After one meeting. He didn’t believe that meant anything significant, wouldn’t pretend to believe closeness after two nights was truly possible. 

But, like the story his mother told him as a child, Holland needed something to cling to through the coming storm. He needed something to keep him brave, keep him on the right track.

He needed someone to remember him.

He needed Kell Maresh to remember him.

Just in case.

“I… I think we’ll stick together. If we don’t, we don’t clean up…” Kell breathes into Holland’s neck.

It was true. There was a chilling, tacky feeling on their stomachs, pulling at their skin with every inhale. Holland couldn’t be bothered to move, couldn’t bear the idea of Kell moving, taking his heat and light with him. When he sighs and starts to shift, Holland’s hand tightens around his upper arm. It earns him another flash of Kell’s eyes. 

Holland slides a hand up to Kell’s jaw, holding him there just a little longer. Just to feel like he’s sinking into that blue – summer sky on the outside, darkening to nearly navy at the pupils. Kell doesn’t fight it. In fact, he leans into it and smiles.

Like all hell hasn’t broken loose and the apocalypse wasn’t reigning outside.

“If you clean us up, you will just have to do it again,” Holland murmurs, rubbing his thumb in small circles over Kell’s cheek. “I will stay until tomorrow morning. I regret leaving last time.”

Kell smirks, settling back down on Holland’s chest, resting his head on crossed arms. “Don’t worry, I got your note… and medal. I won’t be giving it back, I hope you’re not too put out about that fact.”

“Keep it. I will not need it after this ends. Now… should I give you more things to remember me by? A mark on your neck, perhaps?”

“Can I, can I, c-can I..?”

“You can do what, blue-eyes?”

Kell swallows tightly, staring up into Holland’s face. Those blue eyes blow wide, entranced and dizzy under the pleasure licking through his blood. Holland knew the sensation, could feel it in his own bones as they stayed perfectly still, eyes locked and breath loud.

“Can I,” Kell swallows again. “Shit this sounds so childish… Can I suck you?”

Holland cracks, laughing good-naturedly. It only spurns the hot pink, embarrassed flush rising in Kell’s cheeks, making the freckles smattered across his nose pop. “As if I would or could say no.”

“Well you could.”

“And yet, here I am, not refusing,” Holland drops a kiss on Kell’s cheek, then nudges him up the bed. “But you’re going to have to let me lay down first.”

“What if I want you against the wall?” Kell rolls his eyes.

“You might be projecting, blue-eyes.”

“Perhaps, but still. Can I?”

Holland grins, pulling Kell on top of him as his back hits the mattress. “If I had your mouth on me, I would be the luckiest man in the world.”

Kell snickers, already beginning to move down Holland’s body. “Flatterer.”

“Will flattery get me nowhere?” Holland teases.

“Oh no, it will get you a lot of places,” Kell replies with a smirk. “At least with me it will.”

Holland’s legs shake, shivers rolling through him without end as Kell’s head bobs between them. He does everything to keep himself still, to stifle the small jerks and thrusts that could joke the man, and Holland wanted him to stay where he was as long as possible. Kell’s fingers press and massage into his ass, gripping, squeezing, and holding him with bruising force.

Holland feels himself slip off the edge of restraint, his tongue loosening and voice unhinging. He hears himself, muffled by the blood pulsing in his ears, gasping and moaning. Feels the tightness of his own fingers on his hair and scalp as he tries in vain to keep his hands off Kell for just a little while. 

He feels the man change position and his mouth opens to protest. Suddenly his knees are hooked over Kell’s shoulders, the man’s fingers as busy as his mouth now. Kell relaxes his throat and Holland feels his cock slide deeper into the warm, wet, tight…

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, a kaleidoscope star-bursting behind them. He writhes, feeling the tightest held part of him let go, release control, and give in to the curling, twisting pleasure at his center. He opens his eyes, just a crack, and catches Kell’s eyes on him. Reading him, taking him all in, pupils dilated with pleasure.

Holland groans, dropping back onto the mattress, a whole new pleasure simmering in him. “Ó _guðir ... svo svakalega, ekki hætta. Munnurinn þinn_ …”

He could feel Kell’s eyes on him, that deep crystal blue raking across his skin with more care and intensity than Holland deserves. The man changes pace, fingers pressing, grabbing and holding him with bruising force. Holland feels Kell’s throat relax again and again, sliding him deeper and deeper into his mouth, until the tip of his cock is resting at the back of his tongue. Then Kell starts swallowing around him, squeezing him with his throat and tongue, and Holland breaks.

“ _Hlýr, hlýr, ég ætla að ... Fer til.. Ah_!” 

He comes without warning, spilling down Kell’s throat as the young man swallows. Takes all of it without hesitation or surprise, as though he could feel Holland floating on the precipice too. 

When Kell pulls himself back up, he drags the blanket with him. He settles down on Holland’s right side, curling a leg over one of his and nuzzling his face into the crook of Holland’s neck. Holland feels himself dipping into sleep again, lulled under by the warmth, the comfortable weight in his limbs and bones, the lovely weight on Kell on top of and next to him. He didn’t want to fall asleep. He didn’t want to wake up and have to leave again, have to confront what was waiting for him at the front and at home. 

Leaving felt like certain death.

Holland would never see Kell Maresh again. This time was a complete fluke, a blip in the universe that should not have happened. They would never be in the same room again and the thought crushed over him like the shock wave from a shell. It squeezed his heart painfully. He gathered Kell up in his arms, holding him as close as he could manage. Press his nose to the red hair, feeling the smooth freckled skin under his fingers. He would not let the young man see his sadness. 

“You’ll stay the night?” Kell yawned.

“I will,” Holland promises, his voice betraying his emotion. “I will stay, all night.”

“Good. We’ll go again in the morning.”

Holland swallows his tears, pressing kiss after kiss to Kell’s temple. “May I ask something of you?”

“Of course… what?”

“Please… _Please_. Remember me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language Notes:  
> (Arnesian)  
> \- "an esto" (lit. "I'm coming")  
> (Maktahn)  
> \- Þú ert fallegur (You're beautiful.)  
> \- Ó guðir ... svo svakalega, ekki hætta. Munnurinn þinn (Oh gods, so gorgeous, don't stop. Your mouth...)  
> \- Hlýr, hlýr, ég ætla að ... Fer til.. Ah! (Warm, warm, I'm going to... going to.. Ah!)


	20. Makt: November 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief allusion to noncon.

Vitari had failed.

It had been years since one of Athos’ experiments had failed. Really, truly failed.

Osaron had been a success from the beginning, was now wreaking havoc and felling great armies the world over. But it’s next reincarnation -- the smaller, quicker Vitari -- was expected by Astrid at the front in a month’s time; was expected to be greater, deadlier, all-around better than it’s heavier sibling. And it was a complete failure. Quite literally. 

Each prototype and variations there-on sputtered and choked. The internal canister, designed to be potent but hand-held, wasn’t aerating properly. Shaking before throwing didn’t help. Lessening the amount of chemical solute within didn’t unstick it. Puncturing the thing with a pin did nothing. Absolutely none of Athos’ tinkering and rebuilding could get Vitari to unleash its deadly spray. 

Not even kicking it across the room.

Thoroughly frustrated, Athos growls and departs his dungeon laboratory, leaving the faulty Vitari -- and his screaming test subject -- behind. He seethed, stalking to his bed chambers then the throne room. His experiment had failed, London was rumbling again with new rebellion, his latest painting had just expired and was being buried in the courtyard, and Astrid would not leave the front nor would she allow him to join her.

All this killing, all this war, and Athos couldn’t get a taste. Not even a sniff.

It was about to end. 

Vesk had already retreated well within her borders, leaving only a few scattered camps along the northern banks of the Isle and the Maktahn border, simply holding the line. Arnes and Faro were successfully holding one another up along the Eastern front. Rumor had it the Arnesians were ready to unleash a weapon stronger than Osaron on the battlefields, and no one seemed to know whether or not they were bluffing. 

Makt was limping. Even Athos could see that. The workers’ strike had hollowed London from the inside-out, the countryside now turning to unrest. Casualties had skyrocketed and the citizens were turning resentful again, Athos’ generosity with rations and curfew long forgotten now under the weight of mass graves. People held vigil day and night in the Silver Wood, in the Yanev at the makeshift memorial Holland insisted on installing a night watch at. 

Astrid wouldn’t come home, running the cavalry into the ground just for her own excitement.

The war was about to end, London had its teeth bared for revolt, and Athos hadn’t gotten the chance to even smell the gunpowder.

So what was the bloody point of continuing?

The mindless guards moved easily out of his way as he stormed into the throne room, pounding footfalls echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. Athos wanted to snatch up all of them, throw them into the dungeons and make lovely red paintings of all of them. The only thing that tempered his bristling, sparking fury was Holland, standing seren next to the throne. 

Athos had had Astrid’s removed for the sake of powerful appearances but now he rather liked it out of sight. Out of the way. If it had still been standing next to his own, Athos couldn’t have been held responsible for his burning it. 

Besides. She didn’t seem keen on using it. 

“Good afternoon, your highness,” Holland greets in his easy, deep tone. Athos relaxed at the throne, thankful he had blackmailed the man into serving him -- and Astrid too he stupposed -- all those years ago. He had known Holland would get his mind right and become loyal some day. Athos was now happily reaping the benefits of all his hard work, all his devoted carving, his trust in his favorite right-hand. His undisputed masterwork.

Athos loved being right.

“Good afternoon, Holland,” Athos sighs, feeling some of his ire washing away. “What do you have for me?”

Holland clears his throat and he produces a small stack of papers from his pocket. He holds them out to Athos. “One from the troops at Tanek requesting relief. One from those at the Sijlt, also requested relief. And two from your sister, the queen.”

Athos grumbles and takes a look at those first. “Have I told you how glad I am that you’re home? Especially now so you can inform me of exactly how disappointed she is with my reign.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“What if I asked?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ordered?”

“If that’s what you wish…” Holland’s voice trails off, a suggestive lilt to it.

Athos smirks, tearing open the offending letters. “Time enough for that later, don’t you think Holland?”

“Indeed.”

“Did you tell Astrid I would like her to return to London?” Athos asks, skimming through the neat lines of spidery script. Something about another round of compulsory service orders, well-wishes for the Vitari trials. Athos’ lip curled and he tossed both aside. He could smell the disdain in the ink, the subtle insinuation that she was better by simply being older, that he should stay home like a good wife and mind makt while she sought adventure; that she should satisfy her blood thirst, but his went unbearably dry.

It left a sour taste on his tongue.

“I didn’t.” Holland answers in his deep, precise voice. 

Athos turned, half-glaring at the man. “Why not?”

“I thought better of it.” Holland hands over the last two letters. “Things are dire at the front, but they are more so here.”

“And?”

“And I thought her presence would only increase the unrest,” Holland says, voice softer. Waiting to be punished. “Word throughout the city is that she is personally murdering every man left in London in the war, that she is what is standing between London and peace. We can’t afford more dissent… and Astrid wasn’t keen on coming home anyway. She told me as much. I decided not to waste your time, Athos.”

Athos falls quiet, skimming through the letters. Tanek had run out of food and three-quarters of the troops were too ill to move. The Siljt was being frozen out by the onset of winter and had more Osaron shells than they had coats or blankets. Athos grimaces. It painted a very different story than Astrid’s letters.

War stories versus horrid reality.

“What should I fill the time with then?” Athos asks carefully, watching Holland’s face. A very handsome face, another thing he had always liked about the man. Sharp jaw and bright eyes framed by lovely dark hair. His expression continuously unreadable, his brain always working on solutions. Athos found himself waking up more and more to that same face, relaxed in sleep. 

Astrid would take that away, demanding they share or find new toys. Holland never turned soft, never relaxed when Astrid was around. The dark-haired man was too consumed with watching his every step.

Holland bit the corner of his lower lip and thought for a minute, pacing softly. When he formulated an answer, he kept talking as he paced. “We handle the war first, as it is the root of the problems. If Makt was to withdraw from combat, no more men would die and there would be more food available for the people. It would satisfy them for a time. Not to mention, it would force Astrid home where you could keep an eye on her.”

“Take away her fun, you mean,” Athos chuckles. “Why would I want to withdraw the troops? More good will, eh, Holl?”

“Well yes, but once you halt the runaway death toll, add more food and coin to our coffers, we can separate the starving from the dissidents and better quell the revolt.”

“Same tactics as the strike?”

“A variation on the theme, but yes,” Holland pauses his pacing to look up at Athos, green eyes warm. “You cannot rule a country of ghosts and skeletons. We’ve talked about this.”

Athos sighs heavily, casting the last two letters on to the floor with the others. “We have and frankly I’m becoming sick of it. Benevolency doesn’t suit me, Holland. I’d rather keep them shivering with cold and fear.”

“They’ll take your head off first.” Holland says deadpan.

“You think so?” Athos smirks, raising an eyebrow.

“I trust my sources, my spies,” Holland answers. “You and Astrid have already been burned in effigy in the Kosik--.”

“Then why aren’t my jail cells full?” Athos snaps. “You let them walk free, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t arrest a whole neighborhood without the whole city erupting around us.” Holland spits back. “I have the leaders watched at all times. If they so much as sneeze, I know about it. If they try it again, you’ll have a new plaything, I promise you that. But we are living in a tinderbox.

Athos leans forward. He catches a flame crackling behind Holland’s eyes, lighting up the dark green like a campfire through a forest. “You care too much, Holland. You always have.”

Something startled flickered across Holland’s features. “Forgive me, Athos--.”

“Hush, I’m not angry,” Athos dismisses. “I’m just surprised. I thought all caring, all emotion had been drained out of you…”

Holland stood still, his face going still, then softening. His voice drops in kind. “You know quite well that isn’t true.”

“Hmm, I do indeed,” Athos responds, smiling cat-like. Abruptly, he stands. “Walk with me, Holland. I can’t bear to sit in here any longer. Walk and tell me what happens next.”

“From where, your highness?”

“We withdraw from the war, bring our men and our queen home. Then what?” Athos walks slowly, a deliberate move. He has an end in mind, but it wouldn’t do to get there too quickly. Holland was intent on devising a plan and Athos did love watching him think.

“Well… We withdraw, we bring everyone home. We keep the longer curfew and increase rations in accordance with the amount of food we recoup from the war effort. This second stab at revolt fizzles and we pick off the remaining rebels one by one.” Holland’s voice matches their steps, tone low and deep, head bent towards Athos to keep eaves-dropping to a minimum. “Before Astrid arrives home, we send a request for peace talks to Arnes. They are still the strongest, Vesk will follow their lead, but by initiating the meeting we stand to make requests. New borders, reparations, our weaponry.”

“You think they would take away Osaron from us?” Athos asks.

Holland nods. “The Arnesian crown prince has just succeeded his father. He’s young and green, but served with his brother. He supposedly has a particular hatred for chemical weapons and would like to see them outlawed.”

“Young upstart…” Athos mutters. “If we call for peace, we can negotiate to keep them legal. If it weren’t for Vesk buying up all our stores… Osaron paid for this war, is what I’m saying, and I’d like not to lose it.”

“You and me both. We need the money,” Holland sighs. “But, yes, that is exactly what I’m saying. You call peace talks, we hold them in Faro for the illusion of neutrality. You and Astrid both attend.”

“So you can take the crown for yourself?” Athos teases.

Holland huffs a laugh, something he rarely did. “Hardly. But I know your minds. I can keep the people in check and work on setting things into motion for recovery. London begins to flourish. You and Astrid come home with a peace deal, looking more powerful than you left. How does that sound to you?”

Athos comes to a halt outside of his chamber doors. He opens the door, pushing it inside, but stays in the hall with his knight. He smiles, placing a gentle hand on Holland’s shoulder. “It’s an excellent plan from a quick mind.”

“Athos?” Holland’s head tilts, the warmth in his eyes changing.

“You deserve a reward, I think.” Athos runs a hand down Holland’s arm, lacing their fingers together. “Don’t you agree?”

Holland takes a deep breath, stepping forward and crowding Athos against the door frame. “If you believe I do, my king.”

“My king,” Athos drawls.

Holland tilts their heads together. “ _ Moya czar _ , defender of London, great Khan of the Siljt… Astrid has been gone from this city, this country, too long. She’s forfeited her duty and you have filled the space. As far as I am concerned,  _ you _ are king of the Third London, czar of Makt.”

“Don’t let Astrid hear you. She might off us both.” Athos teases, pulling Holland inside.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Beloc jolted up from his impromptu nap as Holland Vosijk stormed into the bedroom. It was  _ Holland’s _ bedroom, but he had told Beloc to stay put and study after Athos called him to court.

In front of him had been every note his aunt had passed to the Dane’s knight through the dancer girl from the August Strike until now. Beloc was meant to be “authenticating” each note, whatever that meant. He supposed that it was to make sure the orders were genuine, but why wouldn’t they be? Beloc knew his aunt’s handwriting anywhere and was happy to take down Holland’s missives back, in the hopes that she still knew his.

He just wanted her to know he was alive to come home.

His back smacked the thin rails of the wooden chair, his head jerking up too quickly at the slamming door. Holland didn’t notice. He was too busy marching around his rooms -- grabbing a washcloth and water from the bathroom, stripping off his shirt and throwing it onto the bed, fixing his hair with a small comb, all with his lip curling in utter disgust. Beloc sat quietly as the man scoured his face, neck, and chest, noting the bloody and bright red marks littering his skin.

“What are you staring at?” Holland asks in a clipped, bitter tone. 

“Sorry,” Beloc said immediately. He shook his head, dropping his gaze back to the small collection of letters in front of him. “I was thinking… never mind.”

“Thinking  _ what _ , Beloc?” Holland’s tone didn’t change, making it abundantly clear he would not be taking any lip from the teenager that day. Some days he welcomed the cutting remarks and criticism, a fact that had surprised Beloc when he first became aware of it. That, of all people, Holland Vosijk understood the inherent badness of the orders he carried out and didn’t mind someone telling him off for it. 

Even if that someone was only seventeen, a full head shorter than him, and just plain angry.

Beloc hadn’t any vitriol that day.

“ _Thinking._ _What_. Answer the question.” Holland repeats from inside his closet, rifling through clothes, looking for a new shirt.

Beloc swallowed hard and winced. “I was thinking we have something in common. We have, um…  _ that _ in common.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Holland reappears in the closet doorway, buttoning up a fresh, dark-colored shirt. His face is hard and serious, matching the coldness in his tone. But his eyes are soft, filled with painful understanding. It’s as much acknowledgement as Beloc could hope to get from Holland, who he had learned was naturally reserved without the layers of self-censoring imposed by life with the Danes. He was serious and quiet where Beloc was at once spiteful and sour. 

He wondered sometimes if Holland knew what that felt like after six years. If he remembered what righteous anger felt like, if he had ever felt it.

Maybe he hadn’t.

“All the letters are from her, I’m sure of it,” Beloc says softly, pushing the stack to the far side of the table for Holland to inspect. “The one on the top was written by Ojka, but signed by Alma, so I’m counting it.”

“Very good,” Holland muses, lowering himself into the other chair and paging through the notes.

“Did you get him to do it?” Beloc asked.

Holland looked up at him, expression unreadable save for a slight quirk of his lips.

“Is he going to call a ceasefire?” Beloc pressed. “Come on, you told me about it last week. You might as well tell me if all  _ that _ was worth the trouble!”

He would probably make Holland regret telling him anything at all with how much he pushed for information, but Beloc found himself antsy waiting to hear of successes and failures. Even though he was essentially Holland’s scribe, Beloc hadn’t been this energized since his aunt and uncle first decided to protest the Danes.

Holland snorts, smirking. He pulls a pen and scrap of paper towards him and starts scribbling. “Not only a ceasefire, but a surrender. Makt is going to pull out of the conflict on Athos’ orders, going into effect immediately. We’re going to be the first to call for peace.”

Beloc squints. “Oh. That’s not very exciting.”

“What were you expecting, confetti and fireworks? These things cannot be exciting if we’re going to be successful,” Holland says plainly. “You’re going to have to devote all that energy and hatred towards unexciting things, Beloc. We are slowly extracting bricks from a wall, waiting until the day it is ready to topple.”

“I don’t see why it has to be all gentlemanly,” Beloc huffs, crossing his arms and scowling. “She’s still at the front. You could gut him like a fish and she’d be none the wiser until she got home, and then you’d do away with her too.”

Holland sighed. “Loose lips may sink ships.”

“What?”

Holland rolled his eyes and kept writing. “Keep your thoughts on that matter to yourself if you want to keep your throat inside your neck,  _ now _ . Astrid will be coming home, she will be angry with the end of combat but only at Athos…”

“What after that?” Beloc asks sharply.

“Precisely.”

“Am I smart enough to tell you what I think?”

“You’re certainly  _ smart mouthed _ enough,” Holland says balefully. “But what do you think?”

Beloc uncrossed his arms and sat up, reaching for the letters again. There was one from two weeks prior, when Holland was still touring the front to report back to the twin monarchs, that Beloc had been thinking about consistently. He shuffled through the stack and laid it on top, gesturing for Holland to read.

“We need more people on the inside. There’s no guarantee the guard will come to your aid when the time comes, and there’s no way to ask how loyal they are without raising some alarms.” Beloc sighed through his nose. “And a few of the mindless have… recently gone missing. I’m sure you already knew that though.”

“Fill their places with revolutionaries?”

“Yeah. I was thinking Ojka, Juri, Sava, and Catrine. Then we can have one of them go back and forth with notes when they go to the market.”

Holland shakes his head. “The current system works best. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize it.”

“We should change it before it gets found out.”

“Who says we will be found out?”

“At least one of the servants who disappeared last week,” Beloc snaps. “Plenty of people recognize Ojka now, and one of the grooms heard from the guards that it was strange that I was seen hanging around with  _ your lover _ .”

That freezes Holland in place, the blood running out of the man’s face. After a minute, Beloc felt the need to check if he was still breathing. Eventually, he takes a deep breath. “You’re sure? Not a doubt in your mind?”

“I’d bet my life one it.”

Holland takes in another ragged breath. “Then it will have to change.”

“That’s what I just said.” Beloc rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I know. Do you want me to tell you you’re right?” The annoyance comes back into Holland’s voice in a rush, startling Beloc. 

“Well… it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Don’t test your luck. Get a message to Alma telling her we will be changing up the messaging system. I’ll deliver word with details when I have the opportunity myself within the week. Once Astrid gets back, I won’t be able to walk freely so you’ll likely be running my errands for me.” Holland speaks quickly, tapping the tip of his pen on the page as he does. “Send for Juri, Sava, and Catrine for the kitchens. Tell her to pick two of the men for guard posts, I trust her judgement.”

“What about Ojka?”

“I have other plans for Ojka,” Holland answers. “I’m not sure what yet, but I’ll decide tonight.”

“Am I being dismissed for the evening?”

“Yes. Stick to your bedroom for tonight. I’ll make sure you’re reassigned from the kitchen tomorrow morning.” Holland gives him a quick nod before gathering an armload of items, collecting his uniform jacket, and sweeping out of the room.


	21. Makt: February 1918 (p.1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Nasi, the character we all fell in love with after approximately 4 pages of air time in the original series. I love her and writing her perspective very much, so expect to see a lot more of it even after this and the next chapters. 
> 
> I've been kind of slacking on these notes at the front end, but am going to make a point to start writing them again. Thank you all for the comments and kudos and reads. Every time that little counter goes up one or two numbers, it makes my heart happy. Thank you all for sticking with me the last couple of weeks. Come hit me up here or on Tumblr (@orchidscript) if you ever want to say hi, ask a question, anything. We could all use a little more human connection these days it seems.
> 
> Anyway, I'll quit stalling. Enjoy!

Until Ojka arrived, Nasi stuck to the shadows of the palace hallways and moved quickly. She was nearly seven years old, had been taken to the palace at only three, and had no memory of home. She remembered enough to know she had not been born to those cold hallways; had learned enough through gentle admonishment that the Maktahn Queen was not here mother or aunt or even a much older sister. 

But still Astrid Dane toted her around as though she was, toddling a littler Nasi to the throne room, out into the stables to pet the hulking draft horses, perched in the saddle in front of the Queen on rides through London. She had Nasi braiding her long, silky white hair on a step stool every morning since Nasi could remember. She remembered when Astrid’s previous servant taught her, remembered when the woman had disappeared from the palace halls forever. She still hummed lightly, still thinking the little pattern as she went about her work.

_ Left under, left over, right under, right over, amulet, left under, left over, amulet, right under, right over, amulet, gem, left under… _

Nasi wove through the palace corridors, the mindless servants and soldiers, the knights without armor. Around and under but not underfoot. Quick and light, the only person able to find her in any given room before was Astrid. 

Ojka could though.

The first day Ojka stood to the side of Athos Dane’s throne, ink-red hair stark against the high white collar of her coat, Nasi knew the woman could see her. See right through her. Even as she sat cross-legged, unseen on the opposite side of Astrid’s throne, Nasi could feel her eyes on her. They had the same feeling as the other knight’s eyes — the tall one with the black hair who never smiled — heavy and searching, not necessarily curious and not exactly thoughtful. She sat still as Astrid’s fingers idly twisting strands of her blonde hair throughout the court session, thinking through all the words she knew to try and name the feeling. 

She was only seven. She didn’t know enough words to pick the right one.

When the generals had receded and talk of dead people was finished, Nasi walked quickly behind Astrid’s clicking high heels on their way to the stables. Nasi could still feel the woman’s eyes on her neck, just like the hunting falcon Athos kept in his rooms — she was scared of Athos more than his sister, even though neither of them had ever laid a hand to her, and Athos deemed her boring, questioning why Astrid would want to keep a ‘little kitten’ around. 

Nasi wondered if she should be frightened of this woman. She was a little frightened of the other knight, with his hard eyes and clipped, angry tone, the way he would glare everyone but the Danes into cowed stuttering. Nasi did her best to avoid him, letting her long hair veil her face whenever she stood near him. She did that with the new knight whenever she delivered food, drinks, and messages to the woman’s small rooms. The woman never said more to her than “thank you,” her airy light voice the only part of her Nasi wasn’t scared of. Nasi, for the sake of politeness and her own safety, would offer a quiet “you’re welcome, madam” before scurrying back into the hallway. Beloc teased her in the kitchens where they sat peeling vegetables in mid-morning, telling Nasi that Ojka was nothing to be afraid of. 

That was how Nasi learned her name. It sounded proper coming from Beloc, from Astrid and Holland’s mouths, but felt like an odd jumble of stones in her own mouth. She avoided talking to the yellow-eyed knight, but would practice saying her name in the quiet moments between chores. So when she finally got the courage, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself.

Nasi was always making a fool of herself. Even when no one told her she was, she was sure of it.

She finished Astrid’s braid late that morning, earning her a sharp pinch to her cheek. It was a more elaborate style, involving more amulets and gems, twining sections of strands too big for Nasi’s little hands to hold. She had apologized profusely, Astrid had forgiven and dismissed her to the kitchens again. She was late delivering breakfast and Beloc told her so, but didn’t scold her for it. He knew. Nasi liked how he always knew. 

He gently handed her Ojka’s tray and nodded towards the door. “Quick now. I’ll handle Holland’s.”

Nasi knocked gently on the woman’s wooden door, waiting for the invitation before turning the handle and slipping inside. The woman was not in her usual uniform, but in a loose pair of pants and a top wrapped around her slim frame. Her hair was twisted and held back, making her look entirely softer than she did in court. She sat on the bed, one lithe leg dangling off the side, a stack of papers held in front of her face as she read. Her yellow eyes moved quickly across the page, then danced over to Nasi’s face as she set the tray on the bedside table. 

Ojka regarded her with a brief nod, like every morning. “Thank you, little one.”

“You’re welcome, Ojka.” Nasi ducked her head. “Sorry for the lateness.”

Nasi held her breath and walked quickly back to the door.

“Wait there, little one,” Ojka’s voice carried through the hush of the stone-walled room and Nasi froze, sure she had done something wrong when she heard the woman stand. A hand settled on her shoulder a moment later. “Turn and face me.”

Nasi did exactly as she asked, as quick as she could despite the fear in her blood and weakness in her legs. She swallowed hard, holding her hands tightly in her skirts as Ojka’s fingernails ran across her cheek, tucking the hair behind her ear. Those same fingers drifted to her chin, tilting her face up to meet the knight’s hawk-like gaze. 

Ojka offers her a soft smile. “So young… how old are you?”

“Seven,” Nasi says meekly. It takes all of the control in her little body not to flinch and twitch when a fingernail runs over the scar on her cheek. Just how Astrid taught her not to.

The softness in Ojka’s face darkens and she tilts Nasi’s face in her hands to get a better look. “Who did that to you?”

Nasi shrugs. “Don’t know. I didn’t… I never saw their face.”

The hands leave her face, but there’s no time for Nasi to relax. Ojka drops into a crouch in front of her, those frightening yellow eyes even with her muddy green ones. It’s the closest she has ever been, so close Nasi can smell the mint and smoke on her red hair, can see the faded glossy scar cut across Ojka’s face. It’s the first time Nasi can see how young the knight is, perhaps not more than ten years older than Nasi herself. She’s seen the woman train and fight in the courtyard, launching knives from her hands like vines shooting from a climbing plant. She was swift and strong, born and bred bristling in the Kosik like Nasi, but looked so delicate. Like the bone-china Astrid Dane took her tea from.

“Go ahead and touch. I won’t bite.”

Nasi blinked and realized her hand was raised, set on a path to rest against Ojka’s scar. She inhales sharply and pulls her hand back to her chest.

“No, go on, little one,” Ojka says, gesturing to Nasi’s hand. She holds her own palm out for Nasi’s, then guides the fingers to the scar’s tail resting across her cheekbone. Nasi holds her fingers still on the thin raised line, never breaking eye contact with Ojka. “A drunk did that to me at a festival, years ago. Do you… do you know what men are like when you tell them no?”

Nasi thinks she does, but not in the same way Ojka does, and shakes her head. She likes Ojka’s voice and decides she wants to hear more of it. No one talks to her except Beloc and Astrid, and those are mostly orders or unfair teasing. 

“I’m glad. I hope you never learn,” Ojka sighs. “You can take care of yourself, can’t you little one?”

Nasi nods.

Ojka smiles. “That’s what I thought.”

Nasi takes a deep breath, then whispers, “What did you do to them?”

“What do you think?” Ojka asks, a dangerous glint in her eyes. Just like the sun off the blades of her knives. Still she smiles, patient and understanding. It was then Nasi decides she likes her, even if she pushes her hair out of her face and shows her scars. Even if she is still just the littlest bit terrifying. “You braid the queen’s hair every morning, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“I want you to braid yours from now on,” Ojka says, twisting a blonde lock gently around her fingers. “You shouldn’t hide yours. I don’t hide mine, they aren’t shameful. Not here.”

Nasi couldn’t answer, voice stuck fast in her throat, mesmerized by the sharp soft tricky woman crouched before her.

“No, you’re too young to hide. Don’t let them wear you, little one.  _ You _ wear  _ them _ . Just how the queen wears all those pretty protections in her hair,” Ojka’s voice drifts for a minute or more before all the vigilant focus returns to her face. “You and I will be friends here, I think. Do you think so too?”

“ _ Nijk shöst _ !” Nasi trills. 

She had never wanted anything more. 


	22. Makt: February 1918 (p.2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nasi meets the Someday King.  
> Enjoy :)

A few weeks later, Ojka asks Astrid if she can take Nasi with her on her palace rounds.

She had only ever been on patrols with Holland, who was now preoccupied with getting the armies of Makt safely home, and didn’t want to inconvenience the crown by getting lost. There were so many side hallways and doorways.

Nasi had been sat on the queen’s lap all morning, Astrid’s fingers combing and twisting lightly through her long blonde hair. Her shoulders slumped, her neck hurt. Astrid and Athos had been talking for hours, just like that, and Nasi sat there patiently, quietly, listening. They talked about food, wine, and servants. The end of the war and the simmering anger in the streets, things Nasi had only heard about and not seen. Astrid, home for two months now, was still bitter, snapping at her brother at every opening he gave them. 

“We were going to defeat them within the month” this.

“Since when do you care about the good of the people” that.

“Do we need to pick you out a new canvas from the rebels” more than a few times.

Nasi sat through it, as she always did. Still and quiet, paying just enough attention in case Astrid asked her a question. The queen had a habit of asking Nasi little questions to make sure she was listening, even though Nasi was very good at it. She had learned early on what happened if she failed to answer a question. It was why Nast was afraid of the dark.

Her shoulders were starting to hurt, her little body wilting forward when Ojka appeared. Nasi managed a smile, but nothing more. Astrid pulled her backwards, propping her against her chest as Ojka spoke. Nasi hung on every word, even as Astrid’s fingers scratching against her scalp began to lull her into sleep. Those same fingers pinched into her cheeks a minute later, waking her back up. 

Astrid wore ornate, clawed metal coverings on her fingers. Nasi thought they made her look like a dragon, or a maybe wolf. Like in the folk tales Ojka would tell her in the courtyard as she practiced fighting, all about the fairies, the spirits in the trees, girls in wolves’ clothing waiting to be turned back.

Nasi didn’t think Astrid was one of those girls. 

But she did wonder if Astrid was waiting to turn back.

Only sometimes, in the middle of the night when she would wake up cold from a bad dream on her little cot and watch the queen breathe.

Astrid angled Nasi’s face up so their eyes met. Hers were pale blue, frosty, and shallow. Little pools not deep enough for the rare summertime birds. She smiled at Nasi, a thin veneer of warmth over her icy insides, her pointed teeth the only thing Nasi sees. “Would you like to be our knight’s guide today, little kitten?”

“Would you like me to, your majesty?” Nasi asks, words muffled around the edges as she tries not to cut herself on Astrid’s claws. 

Astrid’s grin sharpens and Nasi does her best not to shiver. “Yes. I would.”

“Then I’ll go.” Nasi nods.

“And you will be back  _ when _ , little kitten?” 

“At four, for tea,” Nasi answers. She’s relieved when Astrid finally releases her face and pushes her off her lap. Nasi’s legs had gone stiff and wobbly -- she had been sitting for over three hours now. Her face went hot and prickly when she stumbled into Ojka, the embarrassed flush deepening as the twin czars cackled behind her.

“Thank you, your majesty. You’re very generous with what is yours,” Ojka says smoothly, placing a soft hand on Nasi’s shoulder. “I will make sure she is back in your hands by tea time. Thank you.”

“Go on, then,” Astrid dismisses them, still laughing behind her hand.

Nasi takes Ojka’s hand and tugs the knight out of the room, head bowed. 

“Slow down, little one. We aren’t going that direction,” Ojka calls after her. Not a single note of humor laced her voice, but Nasi could hear the smile in her voice.

More shame floods Nasi’s face, hot and bright red. She stops dead in the white hallway, her fingers fisting themselves in her skirts. She tucks her chin to her chest, takes a deep breath and blinks back tears. She had made a fool of herself three times in as many minutes. In front of Ojka no less. The only person in the whole palace -- in the whole of London -- Nasi cared about impressing. 

Ojka never has any rules for her to follow, had no qualms about listening to her chatter on as she played. She didn’t mind watching her braid the mans of the queen’s horses or giving her opinion on the kind of braid, which steed was her favorite (Ojka didn’t have one). She told Nasi stories in between chores and rounds, had begun spending time in the kitchens with her and Beloc when she wasn’t with the other knight.

Nasi was always making a fool of herself.

She sniffles and turns around, trying to hide her face from Ojka as she walks back up to the woman. She stands on her toes as she looks up into her face, the bright yellow eyes with the scar, framed by red hair starting to get longer. Ojka was smiling at her, yes, but kindly. Friendly, something close to lovingly and unfamiliar where Nasi knows it shouldn’t be.

“Where would you like to, to start?” Nasi asks quietly, words squeezing around the lump in her throat. 

“This way. We start in the east wing today.” Ojka held her hand out, tactfully side-stepping the obvious signs of sadness Nasi knew she could see. The little girl could feel them in her own face -- the tightness in her skin, stinging at the eyes, her quivering lower lip -- but couldn’t bring herself to look down and away. She knew Ojka would only gently tilt her face back up.

“Oh, okay, then this way,” Nasi mumbled. 

She took Ojka’s hand, thin and cold, in hers and walked down the corridors. Through the dusty palace library and each of the twins’ bedrooms. to the barren, weed-filled courtyard next to the kitchen with its mossy statues of people twisted in pain that scared Nasi no matter how high the sun was in the sky. Into the storage closets and sitting rooms, up to the third floor, back down to the second, making footprints in all the tiny formal places the Danes never used and left to molder. 

Eventually they reach the end, but before Nasi can turn back into the east wing, Ojka stops her. She crouches in front of Nasi, balanced perfectly. “Can you show me down to the guard’s quarters?”

Nasi scrunches her nose, the spot between her eyebrows wrinkling. “Yes. But why?”

“I need to give something to Holland before we go over to patrol the far side,” Ojka answers gently. She was always kind with Nasi, even when she didn’t have to be, like Beloc. “Can you help me with that, little one?”

“I can do that… The other knight, with the black hair, right?” Nasi smiles faintly, still sniffling. She liked when Ojka called her ‘little one’ -- the words filled with so much kindness, whereas Astrid’s ‘little kitten’ left her shivering with dread. 

“Just right.”

“Okay, but… can I stay in the hall when we get there?” Nasi asks. 

Ojka blinks at her. “Has he scared you before?”

Nasi’s eyes widen and she shakes her head furiously. “No, he’s just. Tall and scary and… He always looks angry at everyone. I don’t, I don’t want him to be angry with me.”

“Well, he does  _ look _ scary, doesn’t he?” Ojka concedes with a smile. “But he’s my friend, like Beloc is your friend. I won’t let him scare you, little one, I promise. Holland, he isn’t scary unless he wants to be.”

“Then what is he?” Nasi asks, chewing her lip.

“He’s…” Ojka pauses to think for a while. When she comes back out of her head, there’s something softer, affectionate in her yellow eyes. “He takes the care of this city very seriously.”

“Serious enough to stomp around the castle,” Nasi muttered, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She trusted Ojka, no question about it. The woman had been nothing but kind to her from the moment she spoke to Nasi in her bedroom, and Nasi loved her. Looked up to her, respected her grace and power and quickness, desperately wanted to be like her. 

She trusted Ojka, and Ojka trusted Holland Vosijk.

Nasi didn’t.

She never had, even when she was still very little and Astrid carried her everywhere. She never trusted Holland Vosijk enough to look him in the eyes or be in the same room with him without a curtain or Astrid’s skirts to hide behind. The way he towered over her, the impenetrably cold look in his eyes, how he stood stone still for hours as Athos circled him and Astrid sent small blades flying past his ears for a laugh. Nasi didn’t like the way his voice sounded -- deep and soft at once, the kind that made one lean in and wait to be bitten -- the habit he had of looking through people instead of at them.

Holland, it seemed, didn’t see Nasi at all.

The thought of being in the same room with him was nerve-wracking enough. 

Nasi hoped Ojka wouldn’t make her talk to him, but led her to the servants’ stairs anyway. She let Ojka walk in front of her as she played her own little hopping game, naming a flower for each step her shoes smacked against. Ojka waited patiently for her at the bottom, watching her playing with a smile. Nasi returned the smile brightly, bouncing down the last three steps in quick succession as her fingers dragged against the grey stone worn smooth from years and years.

“Chamomile, crocus, um… trout lily!” Nasi landed at Ojka’s feet and beamed proudly at her.

The woman giggled. “I’ve never heard of a trout lily.”

“You haven’t? They’re little and purple, sometimes pink. I love them and pick them for Astrid’s hair in the summer, sometimes for her horses.”

“Do you?” Ojka smirks, following the little girl into the hallway beyond. “Somehow I think you made them up.”

“I did not!” Nasi protests. “I’ll show you them when they bloom in May!”

“But why would anyone name such a pretty little flower after a fish?”

Nasi squints up at her, then spins and skips up the hallway giggling. “How am I supposed t’know? Ask Beloc, he told me the name.”

“You know, I think I will.” Ojka follows at a slower pace, watching Nasi as she hopped from flagstone to flagstone. 

She would have to stop eventually. The soles of her boots were nearly worn through and all that hopping would speed up the process, making her feet ache. They would have to last until April, when Astrid wouldn’t mind buying her a new pair. The old ones always had to last a year, even if they wore out or pinched or made her ankles sore. But that’s what knitted tights and socks were for. She had become very good at taking old papers and pressing them to the insides to patch the holes in the leather. 

She stopped with a thud in front of a rough, greying wood door. She spun on her toes to face the red-haired knight and point up at it. “Here.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Nasi.” Ojka rests a hand on the door handle. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in with me? He isn’t nearly as frightening as he looks, I promise.”

Nasi worried the end of her braid, chewing her lip. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You promise you won’t let him?”

“Let him what?”

“Scare me too much.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. And if he did, I’ll give him a good slap for it.”

Nasi thought for another moment, then nodded and reached for Ojka’s free hand. She supposed a slap was a good enough punishment for being scared, but Nasi would do her best not to show it if she was. She didn’t want Athos to find out and do something to Ojka.

Athos scared her more than Holland ever could.

The room beyond matched the door that hid it. Rough and grey, but clean. Books and papers were neatly stacked between two tables and a few shelves anchored into the stone walls. A few windows let weak sunlight stream in from the stables, making it seem comfortable if not entirely warm. Nasi had never darkened the doorway in her whole life, not even with Astrid, but she had seen Beloc come in and out plenty of times. Guards and other servants too. She knew he and Ojka had meetings there, but she made herself scarce and never asked about them. 

She trailed behind Ojka, like a child after their mother in the market. The little new foals behind the grooms who trained them. She did her best to make sure her footsteps were hushed underneath the click of Ojka’s boots.

Holland Vosijk sat hunched over and writing, ignoring them. The last few inches of a candle burned next to him despite the sunlight, catching bronze and dark brown tones in his dark hair. His face was relaxed, eyes less serious, but that didn’t make Nasi any less scared of him. Of the strength and power and coldness that she knew lurked underneath. No matter what Ojka said, Nasi knew what she had seen for years.

“I was expecting you much later.” His voice, normally so empty and frozen, was pleasant and even. Nasi nearly jumped when he dropped his pen, sitting up against the back of his chair. 

“I found the time,” Ojka says lightly. She comes to stand at the opposite side of the table from Holland, gently maneuvering Nasi to stand in front of her. She did as directed, not want to make a scene, but found herself paralyzed to be so close to the man.

Makt’s black night.

Athos’ undisputed favorite.

Ruthless, loathed, and terrifying in equal measure.

When his eyes fell on her, Nasi felt her lungs go still, her heart stop in her chest, and she pressed back against Ojka’s knees. The dark, flat green soon flickered away from her face to Ojka’s. “Who is that?”

Ojka was undeterred, unbowed. She stood straight and spoke with the same dry humor she did with Beloc.“You said you wanted a symbol for the people to stand behind.”

The man lowered his eyes back on Nasi, a dark eyebrow arched in utmost skepticism. “ _ Her _ ? Really?”

“Yes.” Ojka’s voice is precise and clipped, terse in a way Nasi wouldn’t ever have dared speak to the man in front of them. She bit down her fear, leaning into the hands Ojka had resting on her shoulders. “Meet Nasi, our  _ jarná kvetina _ .”

“Our… _springtime_ _flower…_?” The man squints at Ojka, sees the woman unflinching, and turns back to Nasi. From the other side of the table, he considers her with a blank face and dark green eyes, the same expression the little girl had seen darken in an instant, sending court members into fish-mouthed silence. Terror sparks in her heart, the worry that she knew too much lacing her every thought. 

“Yes. Yes, I see it now,” He murmurs to himself, the softness creeping back into his features. He looks at once awestruck and settled. “Ojka, she will do wonderfully.”

“Of course she will,” Ojka scoffs, an irritated smile materializing on her lips, disappearing as soon as it emerged. 

“May I..?”

“I don’t see why not.” She releases her hold on Nasi, who doesn’t move despite it. It takes Ojka’s hand gently pushing her forward to leave the relative safety of where she stood. “Go on, little one. He won’t bite you.”

Nasi swallows tightly and moves slowly around the table. She keeps her eyes on him the whole time, untrusting to her core. Holland Vosijk only turns to the side of his chair, leaning onto his elbows. He was studying her, close and detailed. It made her heart race so fast she thought it might burst, if she didn’t faint dead away first. She didn’t know what was worse -- him not seeing her or him seeing her this clearly.

She bit her tongue, hands fisted in her faded blue skirts. She took a deep breath, steadying her shoulders and ignoring the terror in her heart, fixing him with a hard, deadly stare. A perfect imitation of what she had seen him do day after day in front of the Danes.

“Nasi, is it?” Holland says, his voice turning pleasant again. He doesn’t hold out a hand to her, does not approach her, or even move beyond uncrossing his legs. 

Still wary, Nasi only nods. She’s deathly afraid of what her voice will sound like out loud.

“Do you know what Ojka and I are talking about?” Holland asks, notes her shaking her head with another nod. He lets out a breath. “Nasi… can you keep a secret?”

“Not for you,” Nasi whispers, voice tight.

Holland nods. “Fair enough. But, can you keep one for Ojka? She’s told me how much she cares for you.”

“No she hasn’t. I’m not  _ that little _ , don’t lie to me,” Nasi huffs, ashamed of the squeak, the quiver in her words.

“I would not lie to you, not in front of Ojka,” Holland says. His patience and ease starts to soften Nasi’s biting fear, but not much. It would take a lot more coaxing for her to speak to him civilly. “But I’ll ask again. Can you keep a secret for Ojka? Not for me, but for her.”

Nasi bit her tongue and bounced in place. “Yes. For her.”

“Thank you.” Holland finally moves more, sliding off the chair to kneel on the stone floor. He’s still taller than her like this, still imposing. She takes a hesitant step back, something he does not react to. 

“What’s the secret?” Nasi asks weakly.

Holland looks to Ojka, who nods once and offers Nasi a comforting smile. She won’t let him hurt her, Nasi knows she wouldn’t. It makes it easier to stand there and listen to the man.

“Nasi, we -- Ojka, Beloc, and I -- we are working to make London and Makt better. Safer, happier, better. There are plenty of other people who are working with us, inside and outside of the palace, but plenty more who do not think it is possible,” Holland says. He speaks to her like she is his equal, not a child who needs to have things explained. There’s a trust, a kernel of something else she can’t name, in his tone. She hangs on that unknown, desperate to name it. “We think they need something, some  _ one _ , that they can point to as the reason to make things better. A--.”

“A symbol?” Nasi shuts her mouth quickly, not meaning to interrupt him.

A small smile pulls his lips, his expression softening further. “Yes, exactly that. Do you want to know what I meant by that?”

“You would tell me?” Nasi asks incredulously.

“Indeed I would. You said you could keep a secret, didn’t you?” Holland answers as though it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. “You have worked in the palace most of your young life. You see the Danes every day. You know what they are like, what they do. I think people will listen to and believe you.”

“Because children aren’t supposed to lie?” Nasi doesn’t wait for a response from him. “Are you trying to… to get rid of the queen?”

Holland stiffens and Nasi worries if she’s just done something unforgivable. She prepares to make a mad dash for the door and the hallway beyond, but he gives her no reason to run. He simply nods. “The king as well.”

“You’re going to… you’re…” She blinks, looking from Ojka to Holland and back again. Until suddenly the pieces connect in her brain, all the information aligns in her head, and she gasps in surprise. “The, the rebels. The white rebels, you, you are--.”

“Yes, we are. That’s the secret you need to keep, Nasi,” Ojka speaks for the first time in minutes. Soothing and pleading. “Please, Nasi. Will you stay quiet?”

Nasi feels fear wash through her for the nth time. This was dangerous information, more dangerous than what they were doing, who they associated with.

Athos and Astrid would kill them. Both of them. All of them.

She couldn’t let that happen to Ojka. Or Beloc.

Nasi gulped and nodded furiously. “I can keep it. I promise, I won’t tell. I hear them talk all the time, but I didn’t know. I won’t tell, I promise, I prom--.”

“Shhh, breathe, Nasi.” Holland holds a hand up to still her racing voice. “Breathe. We know you can keep our secret, thank you for keeping our secret. But, you understand. When I said you would be the symbol, that you would be involved too. I would understand if you said no.”

Nasi grabbed hold of whatever words she could, so she would keep talking. Keep sounding grown up, not as frightened as she really was. “T-To being… why, why did you call me the, the?”

“The springtime flower?” Ojka asks.

“Yes, th-that.”

“Because the Someday King needs a companion with a similarly important name.”

Nasi gasped. She had heard the stories too. Had heard the way Astrid told it with disdain, laughing with Athos as the way Londoners still believed. “The someday… The  _ someday king _ ?”

Holland took a deep breath and pointed to himself.

“ _ You _ ?” Nasi whispered in disbelief. 

“Yes. At least, I am trying to be,” Holland whispers too. As though they were speaking in someplace sacred. “I want to save London, save Makt. But… the people hate me, so I need someone, lots of people, who will prove I am not who the Danes have made me into.”

Nasi swallows and points to herself. “Because Astrid took me, when I was little. They will believe the little girl who was stolen, right? London will believe the queen’s pet, right?”

Ojka opens her mouth to protest, but Holland holds a hand up and she stops. “Yes. They will. You are so young, were so young when you were taken. But I don’t want you to be a symbol for sadness, Nasi.”

“Then what?”

“I want you to be a symbol of hope.”

Nasi blinks. “Hope?”

No one would ever mistake her for hopeful.

“Yes,” Holland says after another breath. “You are so young, with so much life left to live. We can give you that future we have longed for.”

Against her better instinct, Nasi walks forward, turning the space between them from feet into mere inches. His voice, his face, everything about him was full of emotion, of that hope he spoke of. She couldn’t help but feel tugged towards that, wanting to help despite the uncertainty that still flipped her stomach. He stared at her in surprise, in amazement. Then he holds out a hand, palm turned up. He seems equally surprised when she lays her much smaller one on top. 

“I… I can be  _ jarná kvetina, _ ” Nasi says. This time her voice doesn’t shake. “I can do it.”

Holland Vosijk places his other hand on top of her’s and closes his eyes. His head tilts forward, all the rigidity gone out of his shoulders. He looks like a man at prayer, like the people who knelt in the Silver Wood for three weeks until Athos gave them their demands. Like the parents, children, and wives who crowd around the Yanev black stone and weep. Nasi resists the urge to step closer still, to wrap her arms around his neck and tell him it will be alright. Her will nearly cracks before he straightens back up, eyes opening once more. He lifts her hand, pressing a polite kiss to her knuckles.

“If no one has ever told you, let me be the first.” Holland squeezes her hand. “You are very brave, Nasi.”

She wanted to shoot something back that was feisty, snippy, a little sassy, but she couldn’t bring herself to. This was dangerous, very dangerous. She could feel it in the weightless sensation flooding her bones. The Danes could kill her too now, but the way Ojka had looked, the way Holland Vosijk had sounded, the way Beloc always understood without her having to say a word…

She did not want to lose that, lose them.

If she died, she supposed, then it would be in good company.

She would be brave then, maybe.

“I like flowers,” she whispers. “When they poke up out of the snow… winter always ends when the snowdrops come out. I… I think I can be like that.”

Holland fixes her with a steady, green gaze. “I know you can.”

He didn’t seem so cold anymore.


	23. Makt: June 1918

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussion of noncon/dubcon sexual elements; semi-graphic depiction of death.
> 
> Two more chapters until we're back in Arnes, folks! I didn't expect this section to run so long, but once I started writing it well and truly got away from me. Hopefully reading it has been as fun for you as writing it has been for me!
> 
> Before we get started, special thanks to @museintheclouds on Tumblr. They are a stunningly fabulous artist who has done multiple, amazing pieces for the Shades of Magic series. If you haven't checked their stuff out, you absolutely should. Muse has been incredibly generous with their time and WIP list, having now done not only a portrait of Holland Vosijk but also Kell Maresh in uniform from this fic. Muse is delightful and talented and an incredible encourager to yours truly, so please go shower them with love. 
> 
> Thank you, Muse. This chapter is dedicated to you :D  
> Enjoy everyone!
> 
> Holland's portrait: https://museintheclouds.tumblr.com/post/612223722121773056/holland-vosijk-world-war-i-au-inspired-by-amid
> 
> Kell's portrait: https://museintheclouds.tumblr.com/post/613400204343934976/kell-maresh-ww1-au-i-had-a-lot-of-fun-with-this

Athos had expected a larger reception for his return home. The reception for his return home. The peace talks were wrapping up, finally, after months and he was eager to return to colder climes. Arnes was far too warm and lush for his liking and Athos was excited to play the role of sole sovereign for a few weeks longer.

He had single-handedly ended the general workers strike in London. 

He had brought more food, medicine, supplies, and industry back to Makt after decades.

He had ended the war to end all wars, had started the world back on the path to peace.

He had brought men home to their families.

So where were the crowds? The throngs of people eagerly awaiting his return? 

The streets were as busy as they ever were. Citizens paused and dropped into deep bows and genuflections when they spotted him, but that was all. No extra guards rode out to meet him. No more Londoners left their homes to greet him. Not even Holland appeared until Athos approached the palace stables, but when he did come into view, he looked splendid. Dressed head to toe in the crisp, dove grey of his cavalry uniform, standing on the palace steps with a ledger held in his hand directing the ranks in his rolling thunder voice.

As horseshoes sound on cobblestones, Holland glances up. His forest green eyes light up in surprise. He waves a groom away and quickly descends the steps.

Athos licks his lips, taking in the dark-haired man. Something strong stirred in his chest, his annoyance abating completely.

“You’re home early,” Holland says, not bothering to hide his surprise. He reaches out and takes the horses’ reins, offering a hand as Athos dismounts. 

“Am I?” Athos laughs. “I wasn’t aware.”

“You are. I wasn’t expecting you for at least two days.” Holland passes the horse to one of the palace guards. “I have a reception planned in two days’ time. If I had known I would have--.”

Athos cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll have the reception as planned, Holland. I wouldn’t want all your hard work to go to waste.”

Holland blinks in surprise, then nods once. “Thank you, your highness. I’m sure you’ll find it totally to your liking.”

“I’m positive I will. You know me better than most,” Athos begins to walk towards the palace doors, his knight falling quickly into step with him. He passes off his ledger to someone else, barking a few quick final orders to others, then follows Athos inside.

The palace was cleaned to sparkling, staff moving about swiftly and efficiently. Windows had been opened to let the summer had been opened to let in the summer air and light. The courtyards were being replanted. Old dead grass and bare-earth being upturned in favor of blossoming trees, purple irises, and faintly fragrant tulips. Wildflowers, snowdrops, crocus, bloodroot, spring beauty, and moss carpeted the gardens. 

New curtains were hung. The servants were dressed in fresh uniforms. Even the hall corners tucked behind the doors were swept spotless.

Every inch of the castle fortress, stem to stern, was freshened and bright.

Athos stood in the shining throne room, casting his eyes around in awe. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Holland?”

“Yes. Very.” Holland stood just out of Athos’s line of sight, a pale shade in the periphery. “I thought it the proper thing to do.”

“Proper?” Athos worked further into the room, feeling the warm breeze in his blonde hair.

“ _On vis och_ ,” Holland said quietly. “The war has come to a good end. Now we shall have a fresh start.”

“Indeed we shall… _on vis och_ ,” Athos murmurs. He was impressed, awestruck, and breathless. A fresh start for him and Astrid, just as Holland had promised all those months ago. The knight, _his knight_ , had delivered hand over fist. Athos turns to the man himself, standing straight and silent a few paces back. Athos strides towards him, not caring who saw, and laid hands on either side of Holland’s face. 

The man let him, leaning into the touch as Athos had often hoped he would, had often ordered him to do. He trains still, green irises on him, expectant and patient. Holland looked healthy -- new color in his cheeks and warmth in his eyes Athos cannot remember ever being present before. His cheeks are warm, his dark hair rich and shining. Maybe it was the months away from home or the days alone in the saddle, but Athos had not felt so drawn to one person in years. 

For the first time in years, Holland looked healthy and well.

Athos smiled to himself, wanting nothing more than to ruin it. To tear it away knowing the dark-haired man would still be loyal at the end. Would let him destroy the healing.

“Athos?” Holland breathes.

“You did excellent work while I was gone,” Athos says, matching Holland’s tone and volume. “Astrid and I will be the beginning of a thousand-year empire, thanks in no small part to you and your loyalty.”

Holland only stared, face soft and open.

Athos grinned, then pressed a bruising kiss to his lips. Holland stiffens, then meets the force in equal measure, gulping down air when Athos finally pulls away. “I knew you’d come around one day, some day. And when you did, you would be brilliant. I knew it, from the first time you spit in my face. I knew it, and you know how much I love being right, Holland.”

Holland watches Athos with easy, green eyes. He still still leaned into Athos’ touch, lifting his own hands to cover and eventually move them away. He squeezes the fingers before releasing them. 

“It’s what you left me here to do,” Holland says quietly. “Only doing my work.”

Sincerely, seriously. 

Always so serious.

Controlled and balanced

Athos lets Holland tour him around the palace, show him all the improvements and lay out in great detail all the new policies he had put into place since Athos and Astrid had left for Arnes. Athos barely listens, beyond the part of his brain categorizing what he should let stand for longer and what he could get rid of immediately.

His impatience grows, watching and listening. Holland was a smart man, had done everything asked of him and more, his loyalty unphased after months unsupervised. But Athos was not one to be left wanting. He pulls Holland off course, down the hallway towards his rooms and then into them. Gripping him by the shoulder and waist, Athos steers Holland towards the bath, ignoring the man’s resistance.

“Athos, I have work--.”

“Holland, I have been stuck in the saddle for three days,” Athos sighs, pulling off his half-cape and boots. “I’m tired and hot and aching. I want a moment’s peace.”

“I’ll get an attendant and leave you to--.”

“ _With_ you,” Athos interrupts him. “I want a moment’s peace _with you_. Forgive me, but I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out.”

“Right…” Holland’s shoulders ease, and the man’s face falls as the realization dawns on him. The disappointment was delicious, just what Athos was looking for. The thread he could pull until it snapped and frayed. “I should have guessed. I’ll… My apologies.”

“Spending too much time with that new redhead of ours. You’ve all but forgotten about me.” Athos undoes his short, noting the delicious way Holland’s posture tenses. The barest lick of fear that made every one of their encounters sweeter. He sighs and turns. “I know how you came to recommend her. The guards aren’t exactly vaults and you know how persuasive I can be.”

Holland swallows tightly, steps forward to take Athos’ boots and cape to the dressing room behind him. The next time he appears, the dark-haired man crouches between Athos’ knees. There’s an understanding glimmer in his eye as he looks up, a hand resting on his leg.

“Let me take care of one last thing and then I’ll make it up to you.” Holland says in the low voice Athos loves so much.

“Please do. I missed you.”

“One moment.”

Holland returns after a few minutes, a young man in tow. One Athos recognizes immediately -- the teenager who had refused to bow one crisp fall day three years ago. The name escaped him, but Athos found himself licking his lips, remembering how easy it had been to break the young man in. He had put up an admiral fight, kept Athos more than interested for months on end, until finally crumpling under the strain. He was older now, a few inches taller, hair a bit longer now that Athos wasn’t shearing it every few months for the sheer humiliation of it.

He had done the same to Holland, to all his favorites. Always the strong ones. Athos was a tinkerer at heart, a true artist versed in the malleable medium of human suffering. Nothing was more exhilarating than cataloging the myriad ways men folded. 

Head bowed and silent, the man scurried into the bathroom, curls bouncing. He turns on the taps, preparing the bath, towels, and other items quickly. Athos lounges on the bed, removing his shirt and loosening his trousers, watching the younger man work. Watching Holland undress to his undergarments.

This is what he had been missing in Arnes. 

This is what he never wanted to lose. 

The unlimited power, the rush of indulging every single one of his whims. The way someone’s life could twist through his fingers, beholden to every tug and yank he decided. The two of them were his, all his, in the end. Moved, ordered, scarred, crushed under his hand alone.

When the bath is filled, the boy moves back into the bedroom, Holland’s clothes in his arms. He deposits them on the bed then stands silently next to the door, eyes downcast. Athos thinks lightly about forcing him to join, then thinks better of it. There would be time enough for that, time enough to break and rebuild them both.

“Perfect,” He sighs, slipping into the hot water. He slides all the way under, Holland watching as he comes up for air. He looks uneasy, nervous. Exactly as Athos would have him stay. “Get in, Holland. Won’t stay warm for long.”

Holland nods and slides in across from him. He tucks his legs under him, an awkward position for someone his height. The discomfort shows on his features and Athos drinks it in, feeling revived. Rejuvenated. 

“I missed you,” He says quietly.

“I missed you too,” Holland answers, voice oddly hoarse and weak. 

Athos grins and motions him forward. Holland complies, however hesitant, and lets Athos slide wet fingers over his neck, into his hair. Lets himself be pulled into another crushing kiss, only giving an inch of resistance. Just enough to make Athos want to yank harder, claw deeper, tighten his palms and fingers over his pale throat until he starts to truly fight back. 

Later, he reminds himself. There is time for that later.

Somehow, Holland manages to break the kiss. He slides back, pulling Athos up from the side of the tub with it, pulls him into another embrace. He leans his forehead to Athos’, breathing hard and heavy.

“What is it you wanted again, Athos?” He whispers.

Athos lets the forgetfulness slide. “A moment’s peace.”

“Right,” Holland breathes, fingers tangling in Athos’ hair. He pulls back and Athos sees the darkness swimming in his green eyes. “Then I will give you many.”

Athos realizes it is not a game when his head slams into the porcelain side behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The movement was easy and quick.

Force the head backwards to connect with the tub’s edge. Yanking it forward by the hair and pushing the head under the water. Using all the weight and force left in his body to keep the thrashing man where he has him. 

Holland bites into his lip. Athos thrashes, body nearly bent in half. His arms flail and grab at whatever he can reach without seeing, clawing at Holland’s chest and arms and stomach. Holland throws more of his weight forward. One hand is clamped on the back of Athos’ neck, the other pushing between his shoulder blades. 

He almost screams for Beloc to help, almost resolves to slam the man’s skull bloody on the side. He clenches his jaw, teeth cutting into his lip. He forces all his weight down once, twice, over and over until Athos’ hands drop away, hot water no longer splashing into his eyes.

He pulls away.

The water goes still.

Only Holland’s breathing made a sound against the porcelain, stone, and cast iron. It came in shudders, pants, and gasps, reverberating to land painfully back in his ears. He watched Athos in muted horror.

White blonde hair drifting on top of the water.

Hands and shoulders sinking underneath the surface.

The last few bubbles of air escaping the throat to float up and pop.

When the cold clay fingers came to rest on the top of his leg, Holland burst back to life.Scrambling for the side of the tub, fingers numb and slipping. Water sloshing over the sides, splattering on the floor. Pain as his knees and palms hit those same floors. The panic consumed him.

Athos Dane was dead.

Holland had killed him.

Holland had killed before. Had watched bodies melt and bleed at his feet, had watched as eyes rolled and lungs went still forever. Had watched them dragged and buried single-file in the palace gardens. He had killed on orders, in the trenches and the streets of London. He had given the orders himself for underlings to do the same.

He had carried them out without feeling, limbs and thoughts coursing with apathy. A cold cruelty born of his own captivity and hatred overtook him. He had long-since forgotten the sensation of the first time. How ill he had felt, his stomach lurching and bile hitting the back of his tongue; the tears, the nightmares, the beatings that followed. Repetition stilled the heart in his chest, replacing humanity with pure machination.

He felt human now.

Shaking on hands and knees, watching water drip from his hair and nose. Not knowing if he should laugh, scream, vomit, cry, or breathe a sigh of relief.

He couldn’t stop shaking. 

He couldn’t catch his breath.

He couldn’t get control of himself.

Where in the _hell_ was Beloc?

“Beloc?” His voice crackles uncomfortably and failed. Died in his throat. He cursed the frailty then tried again. “Beloc?”

A small voice sounds from the bedroom. “Is… Is he gone?”

Holland choked and coughed a laugh. “It’s done. C-Come _help me_.”

Frantic footsteps rush towards the bathroom, Beloc’s thin frame and black curls appearing in the periphery. He halts, jerking backwards and stumbling into the wall with smack. A gasp echoed around the room.

“Oh… _gods_. He’s, he’s r-really…?” Beloc stammers, tongue getting away from him.

“Very, very dead,” Holland croaks. He tries to stand but his legs go out from under him, his whole body pitching forward. Beloc, thankfully, was moderately faster. His forearm catches Holland hard at the stomach. The teenager steadies him, then lowers him back down.

“I never, I took… I didn’t th-think...oh _gods_.”

“What? That I’d be affected?”

Beloc breathes out, shivering. “That it could ever be over… it’s really _over_.”

Holland nods weakly. “For now. It’s over, for now… I need to get up, address the. The guards, take the throne b-before anyone… Before anyone else sees, I nee-.”

“Shut up, I know. You do but you have time. At least another hour before anyone comes looking. Just, I dunno, breathe or something.”

“I _am_ breathing, you twit, but I--.”

“Shut up for twenty fucking seconds and I’ll help you get your pants on. Deal, Vosijk?”

Holland nearly laughed, but was still so out of breath he couldn’t manage it. It came out like a wheeze, ill-sounding. He thought it best to just stay quiet. He leaned against Beloc’s shoulder, very aware of his own nakedness and the body behind them. He let the silence stretch on into minutes, feeling seven years’ worth of weight lifting from his shoulders. The grime and pressure, the feeling of gripping hands, scratching nails, biting and tearing teeth lightening on his skin. His hands tremble, not from cold but from shock, amasement, relief.

Athos Dane was dead, drowned in his own bathtub.

Holland had killed him, saw the opportunity and seized it, just as Alma Maatev had said well over a year ago.

He had done as he had promised. He had ended it.

“It’s over,” Holland whispered. “It’s over.”

“It’s over,” Beloc echoes, gripping Holland tightly. Clinging to his damp skin like a child fresh from the hold of a nightmare. Holland held him back just as fiercely.

“Ojka, Nasi, the others… Are they safe?” Holland says in a low voice.

“Yes. They were in the kitchens.”

Holland exhales sharply. “Alright. When I go to take the seat, you get them out. Into the streets, to your aunt and the rest. Spread the word around the city, and keep them hidden from the city guard.”

“I, I can. I’ll do that,” Beloc vows, sounding smaller than his 18 years. “And what about me?”

“Go home, to your aunt. Give her my thanks.” Holland’s voice slowly returns to full strength. “If they do not accept… Beloc, if I die, I would rather die alone.”

“If I tell them that, they won’t go. Ojka won’t leave, you know that, and I won’t--.”

“You must and you will. Stay safe, so if I go, you all are left.” Holland pushes away, yanking Beloc back to look him in the eyes, fingers pressed white into the boy’s shoulders. “There has to be someone left, Beloc. There _has to be. Please_.”

Beloc gapes at him, his brown eyes shining and shaken. Holland jerks him, trying to get the boy to say something. What he gets is a stammered, “You… you never, _ever_ say please.”

“Then remember me like this,” Holland insists. “Help me get dressed and go. I’ll send word if this… if this goes well.”

Beloc nods, sniffling quietly. He takes most of Holland’s weight, maneuvering the older man onto a nearby foot stool. Without another word, and carefully avoiding glancing at the corpse in the bath water, Beloc disappears into the bedroom. He returns with Holland’s clothes, dropping the coat on to the wet floor. He helps Holland to his feet, standing by with eyes averted, poised to catch the older man again. He doesn’t need to.

The strength comes back to Holland’s body, starting with his voice and breathing. Then legs and back. Finally, his shoulders and neck, pulling him up to full height as he fastened his trousers at the waist. The water still lingering on his shoulders and hair only helped to soak his shirt through, and he resigned himself to appearing that way. There was no time to retrieve anything new and his coat was in the unfortunate, same condition. He pushed his hair off his face, leaning over to cuff his trousers at the ankle and storm out into the bedroom, forgetting his shoes.

Beloc catches him before he wrenches the door open. “What do I. What do I do with _him_?”

Holland, hand resting on the handle and forehead leaned against the wooden door, sighs and closes his eyes. “Leave it where it is. Close the door behind you when you go. Unlocked, so they can see for themselves if they wish.”

“Yes, sir,” Beloc answers. “Thank you, Holland.”

“For what?” Holland breathes.

“I don’t know. Feels like the right thing to say, just to be. Just in case… Thank you for giving me my aunt back.”

All the air leaves Holland’s lungs, his throat tight and strange-feeling. “You’re welcome. Please give her my thanks. We, I would not have gotten this far without her trust.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.” Holland yanks the door open and slips out into the hallway, dripping. As the door closes, he hears Beloc whisper, “long live the king.” It gives him the strength to propel himself forward, down the corridors and stairs to the main hall of the palace. 

He takes his time, a near-leisurely pace considering what has just happened. He abandons the urgency at the threshold, counting his pulse and breaths until he is sure Beloc will have enough time to get the rest out. He stalls in the stairwell, pausing before pushing through doorways. Hoping, praying, against all odds that this will work out favorably. For someone, if not him.

He has earned the odd looks from the servants, the guards, the straggling other members of court. He’s barefoot, dripping wet, disheveled next to his earlier, properly pressed self. The scratch on his face from Athos’ last swing stings as water seeps into it and dries. Holland is sure it will bruise. It’s the furthest thing from his mind as he storms through the doors of the throne room, but it makes for a memorable entrance.

Every nerve in his body tells him to stop. Every thought bouncing inside his brain urges him to pull back, to think this through. But he keeps walking, reaching the carved white throne very aware of the trail of people behind him. He pauses for a moment at the dias, long enough to take a breath.

He steps up onto it and turns.

He looks out onto the gathered crowd -- small, but word spread fast -- and said a final prayer for Beloc and the others. He forgets himself entirely.

“Athos Dane is dead,” He starts, voice clear and loud over the whispering that erupts. He considers it a gift. “He lies dead in the bathroom if anyone cares to see. From today forward, I am czar of London and Makt. Anyone who opposes is welcome to leave now.”

No one moves. Holland can’t tell if it is from the shock or if this is a good sign. Someone shifts their weight but stays put. 

“If that is the case, you have until the end of the day.” Holland rolls his shoulders, managing to stand even straighter. “This city, this country has been too long left in the dark by incompetence and outright evil. Selfishness, pride, and cruelty. I intend to obliterate that. What you see around you now, the changes I have made to this palace, will not be the end.”

Still no one leaves. Still no one moves. Holland wonders if they’re even breathing, even listening. They could very well be waiting for him to quit talking so they could spring.

“We will have a fresh start. The war is over, the Danes will shortly be a figment of the past, and I will rebuild us stronger than we have ever been. With _your help_ , I will be the Someday King. With your help, and nothing less.” Holland takes a breath, bracing himself. “Will I be opposed, London? Will you kill me where I stand?”

Then he falls silent. He breathes, slow and even, and waits for the response. For any response. The crowd, a collection of no more than forty people, exchange looks and twitter softly to one another. A few bow their heads in quick prayers to the old gods. Others glance around, furtively searching for someone else to follow behind. 

Holland waits, counting the seconds. 

If he dies, he would like to know how long it took.

The people gather near the door shift. Clusters of bodies stepping back and parting way for someone else as they move through, towards the front. Holland waits, his brain already running with potential defenses. He blinks, and he thinks the crowd has grown. He shakes it away, sure it was an illusion, and focuses back on the people in the front, waiting for the adversary to appear.

It is no adversary, no challenger, no enemy.

Holland’s heart sinks, face dropping in horror.

Alma Maatev steps out in front of the crowd, her hair long down her back and a shawl tied tightly around her shoulders. Nasi is at her side, looking just as he had seen her that morning. His heart races, pounding in his throat.

_No, not her. She shouldn’t be here. Why isn’t she safe? What went wrong?_

He feels himself move, step forward in a poor-attempt to save them himself, but is stopped short of descending the dias. Alma fixes him with her hard grey stare, a single palm raised forcing him to halt. Nasi is already on her knees, head bowed, her braid littered with the tiny wildflowers she collected from between the cobblestones. With some help, Alma lowers herself to her knees as well.

A maid follows suit, followed by two stablehands and a gardener. 

Someone in the middle speaks up. “Long live the king.”

“ _On vis och_ ,” goes another.

The words echo in the hall as more people drop into bows, curtsies, and full kneels like Alma.

Holland is too stunned. All the words he had had before fail him in an instant. He feels himself smile, his shoulders relax. He raises a hand over his heart and bows, a silent thank you in place of the words he cannot manage. When he straightens, he finds Nasi watching him, a mischievous smile on her face. 

“All hail the Someday King,” she says, just loud enough to be heard.

Holland sits on the white throne of London, grinning at her. “If only I were better dressed.”

 _I am the Someday_ _King_.


	24. Makt: Late Summer, 1918

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic depictions of death
> 
> Perhaps not my best chapter, but definitely not my worst. It's been a rough week and I'm just getting back into writing, so I'm thankful for your patience and grace. Be back soon with a new chapter, this time set in 1920, as told by our favorite, littlest member of the Maktahn palace.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!

London flourished.

Makt followed.

In hindsight, Holland Vosijk would be able to see as much, would be able to see the monumental improvement of the lack of a Dane monarch. Later, he would grasp the full benefits of his well-placed legislation, even hand, and reasonable mind. 

Much later, he would understand he had the full support of the London city guard from the moment Athos and Astrid departed for Arnes; from the moment he emerged from the servant’s stairs dripping wet and shoeless. That the revolutionaries who had once derided his presence and questioned his information had been earning him approval in the markets, the taverns, the thin alleys, the smoggy streets of the Kosik. That his reform efforts during the Danes’ absence had strengthened their claims and little Nasi’s presence at his side during his frequent trips into the proper had sealed the deal.

Months later, nearly a year, would pass before the Someday King knew the scale of what he had accomplished, what he had earned. The breadth and depth of his citizen’s approval, the booming industry flushing the country with new growth, the way the city seemed to clean itself from the inside out. His blindness was deliberate, purposeful, intended to steer him from the trappings of pride and a falsified sense of security. It kept him working diligently for the people of Makt -- _his_ people -- alone.

One day, the Someday King would learn he had indeed saved Makt.

For now, Astrid Dane still lived.

She did not know of Holland’s ascension to the white throne. She did not yet know of her brother’s untimely demise at his favorite’s hand. She did not know how the palace guard had insisted he be left to float and rot in the bath water for days, until flies began to gather and the bile-sweet smell carried into the corridors. She didn’t know he was dumped into a shallow grave, haphazardly dug just outside the city gates, in the middle of the night; how London had turned out in full to tear down their statues, smash them to bits, and lined up to spit on the fragments one by one.

For now, she still lived. Oblivious to how Makt had turned a corner in her absence, happily installed in her plush rooms in Arnes, complaining in letter after letter to her twin brother about how they could have conquered the First London if the war had continued a little longer.

And Holland, desperate to maintain the ruse, replied to every single one in the guise of the man he had murdered. As far as Astrid Dane knew, her beloved twin brother was alive and well at home, making arrangements for her return in a month’s time.

A month that was passing far too quickly.

With each passing day, Holland could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Could feel his teeth set more and more on edge, his nerves fraying, his muscles tightening and knotting uncomfortably.

Ojka and Beloc had taken up the positions of his advisors, his knights, his messengers throughout the city when Holland couldn’t take the missives himself. Beloc was swiftly learning to placate his temper, channeling his swirling pain and bad memories into his fighting practice. Ojka was, grudgingly, getting used to horses and riding. She was warmer than Holland had ever known her to be, especially once he had told her to take Astrid’s room. Several of the white revolutionaries had been appointed to the palace guard after Holland granted members of the staff who had been forced into service the opportunity to leave if they chose. Nasi had very easily adopted the role of princess, delighting in the few new dresses Holland presented her and taking quickly to his tutoring (he was going to have to find her a real teacher sooner or later).

Gardens were being replanted and cared for. The palace was thoroughly cleaned and freshened, repainted and lightened. Athos’ dungeon rooms were bricked up, confined to legend, and Astrid’s war room transformed into a library study.

The city was flourishing, growing, thriving.

The citizens were as happy as they had ever been, content with the changes and unafraid of those to come.

But Holland had never been so apprehensive. Never had so many dark, twisting, wandering thoughts. Never been so nervous in his life. And it came exactly down to the letter in his hand, the paper crumpled and ink smeared from reading and re-reading for days.

_My dearest brother,_

_The little prince has finally concluded his show of strength and we have a complete peace agreement. We got more for ourselves than either of us were expecting and I believe it is because the litli prinsinn is terrified of us. I made sure he was frightened of me, avoiding me by the end of it. He was painfully polite at departure, his brother and keeper less so. I know how you adore redheads, and if we had taken the country for ourselves he might have made you an excellent painting._

_Ah well, there will be time enough for that._

_I am at Verose and will be until the rain clears in a day. Make sure the city is turned out in full for me when I arrive. I look forward to seeing you._

_Your devoted sister, Astrid_

The letter had arrived the day before. Verose was an eight hour ride from London’s outskirts, and Astrid rode her horses hard.

She could be there in mere hours.

Holland had done his best to prepare. He had strategically placed guards throughout the palace and city, sending word through the city that there would be a parade that day for the sake of appearances. He had warned Ojka and Beloc as soon as he had read the letter. Beloc had departed the palace immediately, without protest or question, with Nasi to take refuge with his aunt. Ojka wouldn’t leave, digging her heels in and declaring she wasn’t scared of the white queen, now or ever.

Holland hadn’t had the heart to argue with her. He and Ojka had been partners in crime and treason for nearly three years. He had long since abandoned his efforts to order her around, now bending easily to her will and trusting her whole-heartedly. She was his second in command, his most trusted advisor, his true eyes and ears throughout London. She was stronger and quicker than when he had met her; her movements no less graceful, her yellow stare no less intimidating, her soul no less fiery.

When all was said and done, Holland would rather have died alone, but he did not mind the idea of dying next to her. 

It would have been a fitting end.

He sat in his study all morning, through lunch, well into the afternoon. Waiting for Astrid’s arrival, waiting for the news of her entourage at the city limits. Waiting for whatever would come next. He switched from coffee to tea in quick succession, pretending to work. There were several requests from the agriculture guild regarding surplus crops, what was meant for processing and export, and what was to go right to the Maktahns. It was an easy missive, a simple divided percentage, but Holland couldn’t seem to do it. He couldn’t focus on simple everyday rulings and orders, basic administration and planning and future-thinking.

It all seemed too menial. 

The uncertainty was paralyzing, and Holland hated himself for it. He had every reason in the world to lay out law and order, structure and figures if Astrid did succeed in ending him that day. He had every motivation to insure the city would continue to reap the rewards of his rule even if it ended that evening. 

But he could not move his hand to do it and there was no one to tell.

All he could do was sit slouched in a chair and wait, knee bouncing nervously all the while.

He was offered dinner and refused. He bit his lip and stared at the ceiling, walking through every possible outcome to the last exhaustive detail. Playing every chess piece and possible move to completion. Over and over. Minute by minute, hour by hour, until --

“She’s arrived, your highness.”

Holland looks up. Sava, one of the rebels, watched him with unreadable dark eyes, her dark braids threaded through with ribbon fell over her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he replies, voice low to not give away his fear. He stands, lingering over Athos’ knife he had laid out before picking it up and moving to the door. The girl, pink-cheeked and dark, stood sentinel by the door. Holland rests a hand on her shoulder. “Go to the stables, find Priam, and wait.”

“For what?”

He lets out a telling breath and she waves away the question.

“Yes sir. She’s going to her rooms first, then the throne room.”

“Thank you.”

“You’d better win,” Sava says, then walks towards the nearest set of stairs. 

Holland wishes he could smile at the comment, the biting tone and calm delivery. But he couldn’t. He was too twisted up and anxious. He let his body carry him through the hallways, up the stairs and around the last corner to Astrid’s bedroom. He had hoped he would head her off, be able to negotiate her to the throne room, the courtyard, the garden, anywhere else. He had hoped Ojka would have had the good sense to vacate the room, which had been her’s for nearly three months, to wait for his order, his summons.

He was incorrect, on both counts.

Three guardsmen stood in the hallway, swords at the ready poised for a killing strike. Their expressions did not change, their eyes did not shift as Holland approached, hackles already raised. The door to Astrid’s bedroom was open, urgent and angry whispering leaking out, words unintelligible. Holland was not barred from the door, his stride uninterrupted as he turned the corner to stop dead in his tracks.

Astrid stood in her riding clothes, sweaty and furious, gripping Holland’s white knight in a certain chokehold, a knife pressed into the tender skin of Ojka’s neck. She looked up, wild-eyed, snarling, and near-feral, as Holland filled the doorway.

She grins, pointed and wicked. “So glad of you to join us, Holl.”

“Astrid, what are --?”

“Who’s been sleeping in my bed, Holland?” Astrid sneers. She jerks Ojka forward, the younger woman’s feet losing traction and slipping on the stone floor. “ _Who_ has been sleeping in my bed, dressing in my closet, bathing in my tub? Your little _whore_ , Holland?”

Holland takes a step forward, but Astrid halts him, digging the knife deeper. Ojka’s eyes flash, terror-stricken, warning him to stay putm to not risk it. And he listened. 

“Put the knife down, Astrid,” Holland says evenly. “Please.”

“I don’t take orders from _you_ , Holland,” Astrid spits, venom coursing through her every word. “My brother may in bed for a thrill, but I _won’t_ . _Why_ is your _whore_ in _my room_ , Holland?”

Holland takes a breath, thinking carefully and quickly on his feet. “Because I have since had you and Athos moved to better chambers in the north wing. Let her go, Astrid and I will show you --.”

“Liar!” Astrid screeches. “You _fucking liar!_ They already told me _he’s dead_ , Holland. _I know,_ your personal _rats squealed_.”

Holland’s heart stills in his chest. He wants to reach for the knife tucked against his leg, but knows better. Astrid is a coiled viper, a salient wolf. Ready, willing, and waiting to strike. And Holland would not incite more of that ire. He would not risk his friend’s life, not this way.

“What if I cut her throat, eh? What if I killed her right here in front of you? I bet you everything her blood is the same color as this pretty hair of hers. Want to find out?”

“No!” 

Holland launches forward, Astrid moving faster than he imagined she would. He grasps her wrist, hard enough to break, and yanks as the knife moves, slicing upwards onto Ojka’s jawbone and sliding through the softest part of her cheek. Blood flowers in bright vivid red over the curve of Ojka’s cheek, trickling down her neck, staining the pale expanse of skin rusty and copper-brown.

Holland sacrifices the hold of one hand to reach out for Ojka, pulling her towards his chest. But Astrid still holds her, wrestles her arm back from Holland just far enough to take another slice at Ojka as she wilts forward. The blade slices up her other cheek, tearing a clean path through her thick red braid.

Astrid yanks away, crashing back against the bedpost.

Holland slides back onto one knee, Ojka collapsing against his shoulder.

The knife clatters to the floor.

Blood smears across his chest.

Holland catches himself with just enough momentum to pull back up to standing and stumble backwards through the doorway. Ojka’s breath comes erratic and light, too light to be sustaining. His heart beats hard and fast, afraid for her life and his. Memories flooded back, swift and mean and bitter. 

Another time, another woman, same horrible image.

The guards surge forward, falling back on the loyalty they held for him. Holland drops to his knees, settling Ojka gently to the floor. She looks stunned, dazed, is shivering in fear. But her neck is clear, the scratches not deep, not fatal, nothing Holland should worry about. His throat tightens as the realization drains over him. 

“You’re alright,” He whispers urgently to the girl underneath him. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me?”

Ojka nods, eyes frantic, breathing erratic.

Astrid stumbles towards the door, paused for a moment by the swords circling her. She snarls, teeth bared at the men surrounding her. Unafraid, obstinate, defiant. “You let him kill my brother, _you fools_ . You _let him live_ and point your swords _at me?_ ”

Holland glances up at her, one hand going to his knife as the other squeezes one of Ojka’s. “Death comes for us all.”

Ojka nods frantically, gripping his hand so hard she might break it.

“Should it come for me today, I would have mine mean something.”

Ojka nods, throat working as hard as her chest. “End it.”

“I will.”

“Are you just going to stand there?!” Astrid screams. “For _him?_ _Traitors_! Finish it then! You cowards!”

As Holland stands, knife in hand, Astrid lunges. 

She screams as the swords pierce her abdomen and ribs, the sound echoing loud and vicious around them, ricocheting across stone and marble. Her knife drops, blood leaking through her clothes, but she surges forward. She claws and tears into the faces of her assailants, metal covers ripping into their skin. She grins madly at the attack, a bird of prey landing her target.

Holland watches, helpless and frozen. 

The knife hangs limply in his hand.

Watching as the swords pull out, then shove into fresh organs and skin. She screams and dives forward, falling fully onto the blades as she reaches out to him. Murder writ large on her feature, her pale blue eyes colder than artic snows, lips curled back over sharp teeth bared to sink into his neck.

Holland swallows and strides forward, closing the gap. 

Astrid stays suspended in air on the blades. 

He grasps her jaw in his hand, pulling her head back so he can look down at her. He takes a breath and draws his blade across her throat, watching her blood flow. Bright red, same as his, same as Ojka’s.

“Go back to your brother,” Holland whispers. “He’s missing you.”

He steps away, releasing his final hold on the horrors of his past. He watches the light fade from her eyes as he steps back and away to Ojka, lifting the younger woman back into his arms. He cradles her close, carrying her to his rooms, pressing kisses to her hair and whispering small comforts to her.

A small comfort.

A small certainty.

He sobs into her hair afterwards. Relieved and grateful and free.

Absolutely, undeniably, free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been formulating a lot of ideas about white London and what Make as a country looks like. So, if you want an idea of what Sava looks like, please look up the indigenous peoples of the Kamchatka Peninsula, Russia. Please don't @ me, I've been reading a ton about Russia and Russian history and I'm just fascinated with all the amazing things I've missed out on and I really am going to try to incorporate as much as possible into it!.


	25. February 1920: Red London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes or warning this week, y'all. Just enjoy some Nasi and Holland before I reintroduce the Maresh boys :)
> 
> Enjoy!

Everything was brand new.

Wonderfully, delightfully, spectacularly brand new.

The jeweled flowers tucked precisely into her braids. The colorful vines of embroidery on the new dress made just for her. The train and plush train car they now sat in, sent to meet them at the border by the king of Arnes himself. The wide river glinting blossom red outside the window, carving a ribbon next to the tracks.

“Nasi, don’t stand on the seat.”

“But the water is  _ red _ , Holland!”

“ _ Jarná kvetina. _ ” Holland’s voice briefly turned stern, but still even. Nasi wasn’t in trouble yet, but she was getting close to it.

She huffs and drops down onto the seat next to the czar, her legs dangling well above the floor. “Yes sir.”

“That’s better, thank you. We can’t have you falling and hurting yourself,” Holland says gently, turning the page of his book. “I know you’re excited, Nasi, but you’re going to have to control it, keep it hidden for a little. We don’t know this country.”

“But they know us,” Nasi says, slouching back against the velvet seat cushion. Her eyes flickered between the side of Holland’s face, the shiny toes of her new boots, and the book held open in his hands. She could read the words on the page now, kind of. Holland read things with bigger words in them, in other languages he told her she would learn, and with no pictures.

“They know the Danes though.”

“Does that matter?”

Holland’s hand pauses as he moves to turn the page again. It hung in mid-air as he formulated some kind of thought, some kind of appropriate answer. He seemed to do that with a lot of her questions. It made her wonder if her questions were good ones, like her tutor said sometimes, or if they were confusing and Holland had to think a long time about how to answer. Nasi wondered but was afraid to ask. He always answered her, one way or another.

“Yes, it matters,” Holland says finally. His fingers tap lightly where they rest against the page. “We need to prove that we’re different from the Danes. We need to show them that we are…”

“That we’re…” Nasi prompts him, nudging his knee with her shoe.

Holland thinks another moment, then answers. “Respectable. We need to look and act, prove we’re respectable, Nasi.”

Nasi looks at him up and down. He was dressed in one of his three royal uniforms, the deep blue one decorated in garnet red and subtle gold. He had had three made to replace the ones he wore before as the Danes’ knight, keeping only the rough grey wool uniform he had worn as Fieldmarshal at the war’s start, before he was called back to Makt. He wore the blue the most, so much so Nasi would call it his favorite. 

It was a funny thought since she remembered when she thought Holland couldn’t like or have a favorite anything. But he did have favorites -- a favorite horse, a favorite flower, a favorite tea, a favorite uniform.

He had asked Sava to design it in the style of her people, just as he had asked Mikhail to do for the green one he would be wearing tomorrow. It was a style from the far north of the country, one side layered over the other with a high protective collar to keep out snow and ice, the blue wool falling to mid-thigh to do the same. A red sash cinched the tunic in at the waist and matching red ribbons sat at the shoulders, making him appear broader than he was.

Holland smiled more now, spoke with a genuine warmth that was growing more familiar to Nasi’s ears. Altogether, he looked like a real czar in her eyes, close to the fairytale his reign was named for. Handsome, responsible, respectable except…

“You would look respectable without  _ this _ ,” Nasi jabs a finger into his cheek, nose wrinkling at the wiry dark hair of his beard. He had started growing it a month earlier and Nasi had hated it from the start. She seemed to be the only one thought, which Holland told her often.

He regarded her with a smile, his evergreen gaze sparkling with mirth. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“I don’t like it,” Nasi sniffs, upper lip curled.

“You don’t?” Holland says, laughter flooding his tone. He always greeted her stubbornness with laughter, loving how she had gone from hating him -- fearing him -- to affectionately sticking her tongue out at him in a little under a year. 

She shakes her head furiously, braids bouncing at her shoulders. She crossed her arms tightly, wrinkling the front of her dress.

Holland grins, running his hand over the beard that had just turned long enough to be soft. “That’s unfortunate. I quite like it. Do you think they’ll like it in Arnes?”

Nasi groans and presses her hands into his cheeks. She scowled as he laughed at her, yanking on his beard to keep from laughing with him. Holland sets his book aside and pulls her up into his lap for a hug. He did that more often those days, and Nasi welcomed every single one. She hoped it wouldn’t dry it up all day, all of a sudden, when he remembered the frigid man he used to be and forget all about her. 

She hoped he wouldn’t remember how to look through her again.

“If you hate it so much, Nasi, I’ll shave it off as soon as we get home,” He chuckles, holding her close enough that the beard tickles her face. “You can watch if you like.”

Nasi giggles, squirming and flailing until he lets her go. She crosses her legs on the seat, beaming and giggling while catching her breath. Minutes pass and Holland goes back to his book. Nasi turns to watch the Arnesian countryside like scenery in a puppet show, leaning up against Holland’s side. She watches as the land outside fades from one farm and estate to the next, rising and falling trees and fences until the houses get closer together, the streets get thicker, and the country becomes a city. 

The Arnesians didn’t have walls around their London, didn’t have checkpoints the way the guards used to. The train slipped by, unimpeded, unboarded. No one stopped them, even though they were foreigners and the king didn’t know they weren’t respectable. Nasi wondered if the king of Arnes told the guards to let them pass.

“What do you think they’ll be like?” Nasi sighs, tilting her head up to look at Holland.

“I don’t know. Ojka says she likes them, thinks they will help us,” Holland answers calmly, holding up his book and turning the pages with one hand. The other is draped over her shoulder where she had pulled it so she could play with his fingers. “I hope they can help, Nasi. We need help, we can’t keep making those weapons and we need food to make it until the harvest comes in.”

“Do they know that?” Nasi murmurs.

“No, no one can.”

“We have to look strong?”

“Yes.”

“And respectable?”

“Yes.”

“So why did you bring me?” Nasi was excited to travel, more than she had been able to put into words in any language. But she hadn’t thought about the responsibility of going, of what being with Holland in Arnes representing Makt would mean. If it required respectability, responsibility, even strength, why hadn’t he picked Ojka? She was all those things and more when Nasi wasn’t. Nasi would never be mistaken for strong, by anyone.

She was too small for her age, too bird-boned and pale.

She was only nine, and just barely.

These people, whoever they were, would never see her as a figure of strength. They would never know her as her London did, as the Springtime Flower.

_ Jarná kvetina  _ meant nothing in Arnes.

“Because  _ I _ need  _ you _ to be strong, Nasi,” Holland whispers.

“What?” Nasi’s head pops up.

Holland exhales slowly, the book falling to his lap. His face, his eyes now looked sad and uncertain. “Ojka and Beloc are to keep Makt strong while we are gone. I need  _ you _ , just you, to keep me strong,  _ sa litli _ .”

_ Sa litli _ .

Little one.

Holland had been calling her that a lot over the last few months. Little one, Springtime Flower, once or twice “little sister” when members of the guard, the court, the revolution questioned her presence. Never just Nasi anymore, which she quite liked. She had never before been someone’s sister, or a symbol, or anyone but just little Nasi or the hated “little kitten” before Ojka, before Holland.

Nasi smiles and twists her fingers into the cuff of Holland’s uniform. “I want to help. What do I need to do to keep you strong? I want to help like before, I --.”

“I know, I know.” Holland bends to kiss the top of her head. He squeezes her closer to her side. “You help me by being right here,  _ min dottir _ .”

Surprise flickered across Holland’s features, slipping into embarrassment as he pulled away. He coughs twice to cover it up, a blush spreading in his cheeks, and he looks away from her. 

Nasi’s eyes brighten and widen. “Did you --?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Holland answers quickly, coughing a third time and picking his book back up. “But I, I meant the sentiment. You understand?”

Nasi beams. “I understand. It means you like me after all, huh?”

“Yes, Nasi, it does.” Holland sighs. “I only wish I could have done more for you earlier than now.”

“I wish you could have too,” Nasi says, turning up to her knees and facing him. She plays with his buttons, then his collar, then his beard again. She doesn’t like it, but it is very funny to play with. And it brings a little smile to his face. “I wouldn’t have been so scared of you if you had.”

Holland clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Nasi, I am. I… I have plans on how to make it right. Once we’re home again.”

“Do I get a new dress?” Nasi answers happily. She counts the strands of grey starting to appear in his black hair, a few stray ones in the beard. Holland wasn’t all that old; older than her, yes, but not as old as Alma or some of the servants. “Or I can keep the kittens from the stable?”

“Not exactly, but you may keep the kittens,” Holland answers smoothly. “No, I have… When we are home, if you would let me, I would like to find your family, your parents, whoever it was Astrid took you from.”

“Family… Like, like Alma and Beloc?”

“Just like, but only if you would like that.” Holland finishes his sentence as the train rolls to a stop underneath them. Nasi scrambles from her seat next to him, stumbling as the breaks kicked in, and catching herself against the window.

As the steam clears, she gasps at the riot of color before her -- and that was just the train platform. City guard dressed in neat uniforms of bright red, brighter than Ojka’s hair, brighter than Nasi had ever seen. People milling around the platform, talking and laughing, waiting for their trains in brightly colored silks -- gem colors of green and blue, purple and plenty of gold. Bright pink flower petals drifting through the air, landing in fat rolling clusters on the platform.

“Look! Holland, look! Look at it!” Nasi squeals in delight, tapping a finger against the window glass, bouncing in place.

But Holland hadn’t moved. He sat, hunched over, book held in his hands with a finger marking his place. His eyes trained on the floor in front of him, his whole body unmoving. Nasi felt her heart sink in her chest, her face fall, the glass under her palm turning cold.

“Holland?”

“Promise me you’ll think it over.” Holland turns his head to look at her, eyes flashing sad and lonely again. “I won’t keep you from your family, who you are, anymore. Not if you want to know them.”

Nasi opens her mouth to speak, but there’s a knock at the compartment door. It opens, revealing one of the fancy red guards from outside. He nods at her, then steps in to hand a sealed note to Holland. The sadness is gone in an instant, replaced by the balanced, patient man he was now.

The man speaks in a language Nasi doesn’t understand much of. Holland called it “high royal” and had begun to teach her a few words and phrases for this trip, but it felt clunky on her tongue. She wouldn’t speak it unless asked, she decided.

“ _Padishah_ Rhy Maresh _han_ _hazretleri_ requests your presence at the Soner Rast. The guard will handle your baggage and see to it that it is placed in the correct rooms so you may arrive more immediately.”

Holland nods, replying in the same strange words. “We will be there, thank you. Give us a minute to collect our things.”

The guard nods and the door slides shut once more.

Holland turns and collects their coats, helping Nasi into her’s. “Remember,  _ jarna kvetina _ . Respectable.”

“Yes sir, I will.”

“Good, thank you.” Holland holds out a gloved hand to her. “Please think about what I’ve offered. Do not agree on my account. I’ll do whatever it is that you want, Nasi.”

As they walked through the corridor and down onto the platform, following an escort to a carriage waiting for them, Nasi’s head tumbled in thought. The sensory overload of the colors and smells of this very red London, the people, the strange words that sounded like bird song and made Maktahn sound like a brick falling to the dirt. And still, as they rode in silent, watching out the window, she couldn’t shake her newest nickname. The newest thing that Holland had chosen to call her.

_ Min dottir _ .

_ My daughter _ .

Nasi sighed sullenly and picked at a stray thread on her new white gloves, trying to pick between a mother she did not remember and the man who she had just begun to know. 


	26. February 1920

“You’re in a good mood,” Kell mutters in his brother’s ear as they stood in the front hall of the Soner Rast. For the first time in years, the palace was humming with activity. Palace staff has been asked to return in light of the upcoming peace talks and many foreign visitors, and Rhy had insisted upon personally greeting every single one.

“I have to be, Kell,” Rhy replies, his jovial tone turning sour for a moment and only towards Kell. It revived itself as soon as the next person walked up the steps. “Good morning, thank you for your assistance this week.”

The young man -- who Kell remembered sneaking out of Rhy’s rooms one night, years before -- bows politely. “Of course,  _ mas hazra _ . Anything for the crown.”

“And the crown is eternally grateful.” Rhy allows the man to kiss the ring bearing the Maresh cup and chalice, then gestures in the direction of the kitchens. He waits until he is well out of earshot before hissing, “It’s a clever mask, but I have to wear it.”

“Technically, you can do whatever you want, Rhy,” Kell says quietly. “You are the king now.”

“I  _ cannot _ do whatever I want, Kell. You know that as well as I do.”

“So you are in a foul mood. Have you been sleeping?”

“No. And don’t ask stupid questions.”

Kell stays silent as a few more people pass. Despite it still being winter, the air was warm, the sun bright on his face. It wasn’t too much of a hardship to stand at Rhy’s side outside the main palace doors. If Kell was honest, he was there less for his brother and more out of a vain hope. He was there as his brother’s keeper, waiting for a man he had not seen in three years. He did not know if he would recognize him, or if Kell himself was still recognizable. Three years, let alone three years of war, was a long time. 

Not to mention what Holland likely had to do in order to relieve the Danes of their thrones. 

Kell had read histories and heard stories of how the Maktahns chose and discarded their rulers, how every second was just as uncertain as the one before it, and a single wrong move could send one’s crown clattering to the ground, the head right along with it. Kell was curious, but apprehensive. Holland had likely been a different person all those years ago, and Kell couldn’t help but wonder what ruthlessness lurked under those green eyes.

Soon after Ojka, the white knight, had departed Kell had divulged his wartime secret to his brother. Simply, that he knew the Maktahn king before he took the throne, knew him in the most intimate sense of the word. Rhy had nodded, half-heartedly teasing that he didn’t know Kell had it in him in the middle of a war and wished he hadn’t been sent home so he could have pestered Kell about it firsthand.

But something akin to jealousy had quickly taken root in Rhy, mingling and mixing with the stress of the peace talks, the pressure of appearances, and irritation from an all-consuming lack of sleep into a heady, biter cocktail. Rhy had grown increasingly short with Kell, barely holding his temper in check throughout audiences and meals. After one particularly nasty fight, Kell had requested the wine stores be locked until representatives from Makt, Vesk, and Faro began to arrive, no matter why the king himself ordered.

Rhy had thrown a furious screaming fit, then refused to speak to him for a week. That was nearly a full five weeks ago, and Rhy was still exceptionally short-fused with Kell.

All Kell could do was watch his step and wait for it to pass. He and Rhy had fought before --- not often but enough. Bitter things that lasted a few hours to a few days, but rarely longer. These new fights were unprecedented, increasingly encroaching on unknown territory. Kell was careful, towing the many lines Rhy had drawn around him, all to aware that a misstep could shatter their relationship.

Kell would not lose his brother.

Not after all the shit they had slogged through and survived.

Not when both of them were still alive and breathing.

Kell would never venture to call his brother “delicate” or “fragile.” Their mother plagued the young king with enough of that commentary when they were younger, and the whole point of enlisting was to prove that he wasn’t. He knew it was just one of the fears Rhy carried with him, one of the many things that spiked his anger and anxiety when it was least expected. Rhy trapped himself under the weight of too many vicious, poisonous thoughts. Kell wanted to push the matter, wanted to force his brother to face these things head on, but he couldn’t.

Not when there would be so many foreign eyes on them.

Not when Kell couldn’t bring himself to do the same.

“I’ve arranged for tea in the solarium when they arrive,” Kell says, keeping his voice amicable and relaxed. “A full tea, just like mother used to do.”

“Excellent, thank you. You’ve arranged for their rooms?”

“Room. And yes, one of the few in the south wing overlooking the river.”

“Next to Vesk so the Taskons can poison the well themselves?” Rhy purses his lips.

“Next to Faro, actually,” Kell supplies breezily. “I thought it best to isolate our allies to the north in the east wing, so we can keep an eye on them.”

“Can you do the same for the dinner table?”

“I wish. Cora’s too smart for that, you know.”

Rhy chuckles, shaking a few more hands and greeting more staff members. “Too right. She’d have our heads if she suspected anything amiss.” Rhy’s momentary cheer falters into uncertainty. “I, um… I heard the Emerys agreed to your request. I didn’t think they would.”

Kell sucked hard at the inside of his cheek. “No, they agreed to send one person to the meeting but wouldn’t say who.”

Rhy sighs. “A hundred lin says it’s Berras.” 

“It just might be. He was always good at playing the rat,” Kell smirks. “Whoever it is, I’ll have them watched when they’re on grounds.”

“Unless--,” Rhy begins, then cuts off abruptly. He straightens his shoulders, color rising in his cheeks. “Nevermind.”

Kell feels annoyance rise in his throat, a natural reaction concerning the Emery family, but squashes it quickly. “You were hoping for Alucard, weren’t you? After everything --.”

“Yes, I was. Do  _ not _ start with me on him, Kell. I am in no such mood today.”

“I gathered as much, Rhy.”

“You’re really one to talk when you’ve got your paramour arriving right to your door.”

“And you pining like a teenager that yours would too.”

“Kell, _I_ _said--_.”

“I. Am. Not starting a damn thing, Rhy. I posted the letter you wrote him myself, made sure it got all the way to his bloody ship,” Kell says quickly, smoothing over Rhy’s irritation with a terse voice. Despite the edge, it seems to work. “If he doesn’t come in on your orders, I’ll have grounds to drown him.”

“Only if I say so,” Rhy cuts him off with a sad look. “After all this time, Kell... I might allow it.”

Kell hummed and stepped back to lean against the palace door, hands clasped behind his back. He scans the streets for signs of the carriage he had dispatched to the train station earlier, knowing that to see it would mean they had arrived far earlier than planned.

“I can  _ hear _ you thinking, Kell.” Rhy casts a glance back at him. “Is it about him?”

“Him who?”

“You’re exhausting,” Rhy sighs.

Kell rolls his eyes. “If by him, you mean Alucard Emery and how sorry I am that he continues to take up so much precious space in your brain, then yes. I am thinking about  _ him _ .” He sees Rhy’s shoulders stiffen, then clears his throat to draw his attention again. “I  _ am _ sorry, Rhy. Really. I had hoped he was better than that.”

“Me too,” Rhy mumbles. He turns back around, watching for more people to come up the stairs. “I really hate whenever you’re proven right.”

“Rhy--.”

“Not now, Kell.” Rhy lets enough exhaustion leak into his features, and Kell knows it's only a fraction of what his brother really feels. “ _ When _ he comes around, I’ll be dealing with him myself.”

“As you should.”

“And I will. Now, tell me the rest of the arrangements again. I don’t want to forget.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When it came to the Maktahn czar, Rhy wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Kell had described the man briefly -- or rather, what Kell remembered of the man. Based solely on that, Rhy was expecting someone quite like a soldier -- stoic and commanding, weathered and secretly ruthless. He supposed he had simply reconjured his childhood image of his father, although packaged in a much younger man. Holland Vosijk was stoic and quiet, but considerably more patient and amenable than Rhy had expected. Dark-haired and pale, dressed in the frosty blue of the north countries, he seemed a perfectly capable but secretly kind man. There was something quietly hopeful about him that Rhy felt drawn to, sympathetic and respectful of. Rhy had never expected to feel a closeness to another leader, to not feel like he was guarded and waiting to strike back.

Much about the Maktahns was unexpected.

The Springtime Flower who had accompanied the czar, for instance. Rhy had imagined her to be a knight like Ojka, a princess fiance, or perhaps a queen.

But a child?

The Springtime Flower was indeed a small girl, fair-haired, curious, and delightful in her own right. Despite the unshakably sour mood plaguing him that day, Rhy couldn’t help smiling and laughing as the girl called Nasi marveled over the teatime spread, the embroidered fabrics of the solarium furnishings, the glimmering mosaic walls of the Soner Rast. All commonplace for him and Kell, having grown up surrounded by sumptuous color and finery, but a fantastic novelty for her. She had been overwhelmed by the floor of the room, exclaiming to Holland that she didn’t know there were so many colors in the whole world.

Kell seemed mildly unnerved by the child, who had taken an immediate liking to the redheaded prince. As Rhy and the czar went through the pleasantries, Kell was busy explaining each of the teas and pastries in careful Maktahn to Nasi. He had made a point of practicing the language more diligently the moment the Maktahns confirmed their attendance. Rhy had done his best not to laugh.

“What’s this one?” Nasi asks quietly, pointing to a lapis-colored teapot.

“That one?” Kell says, making a show of thinking. “Rose, chamomile, and lemon, I think.”

“Rose?” Nasi gasps excitedly. “I didn’t know you could drink flowers!”

“Only some flowers, but yes you can drink flowers. Roses, lavender, chamomile, chrysanthemum…”

Nasi nods, very seriously considering what Kell was telling her. “Okay, I want that one. What would you eat with that  _ mas ver _ , no.  _ Mas veras _ ?”

“ _ Mas vares _ , but you don’t have to call me that,” Kell corrected gently, pouring tea into the emerald green cup Nasi had picked. He was far better with her than Rhy would have guessed from his always-scowling brother. It probably came from all the practice Kell had had with Rhy when they were children. Or the fact that this was very evidently Holland Vosijk’s daughter and Kell was still besotted. Rhy didn’t need to have seen his brother’s smile when they arrived, the way they greeted one another as old friends to know that much. 

“If it were me, I would eat these,” Kell says, arranging a few sweets on a matching saucer and handing it to the girl. He points to each in turn. “This is rose, this one honey, and this last one pomegranate.”

Nasi’s nose wrinkles. “What’s that?”

“A kind of fruit. It's bright red, the seeds look like jewels. If you like how that tastes, I’ll show you what it looks like at dinner.”

Rhy smiles, watching her face light up as she tastes the bright pink sweet, then turns back to Holland. He speaks to the man in high royal, having attempted Maktahn earlier and been answered in the aristocratic tongue. A very subtle suggestion of preference. “I’ve never seen my brother so charmed. No wonder your people adore her.”

“She certainly has a way of wrapping people around her finger,” Holland answers smoothly, deep and radiating. 

The more he talked, the more Rhy found himself caught between congratulating Kell and vaguely jealous he hadn’t been seduced himself. He wasn’t, not really. It had happened while Rhy had been home, confined to bed by his mother after being shot clean through the shoulder and picking up a nasty infection on the journey home. Rhy shook away the thought, afraid he might feel the injury the more he thought about it.

“How old is she?”

“She turned nine in December.”

“My mother used to say Kell and I grew up too quickly for her liking. That she blinked and we were eighteen,” Rhy says. “Has that been true for Nasi?”

Holland clears his throat, sips his own tea. “I wouldn’t know. She’s only been in my care for two years. I hardly saw her before then.”

“How do you mean?”

Holland’s voice drops. He watches Nasi as carefully as he answers. “She was Astrid Dane’s maidservant, taken from her family at the age of three. I hardly saw her until Ojka introduced me to her.”

Rhy blinks and clears his throat. “You’ll forgive me. I believed she was your daughter and arranged your rooms as such. I’ll be happy to remedy that as soon as possible.”

“No need,” Holland waves him off. “She’ll prefer being in the same room as me. She’s not my daughter, but she is my responsibility. Only between us, she’s the reason I had the support to become and stay king as long as I have.”

“I’m not privy to all the details of your ascent to the throne, but I’m sure that’s not entirely true,” Rhy sips his tea. “My brother tells me your competence was the reason Makt survived the war, let alone the original peace talks. I was told you were left to rule alone while the Danes travelled to proceedings here.”

“You heard correctly.”

“And here you are yourself.” Rhy smiles, reaching for a pastry. “Who have you put in your place?”

Holland actually returned the smile. Small, but with a glimmer of pride. “Several people. Ojka, who you’ve met, a young man who is my second advisor, and the leader of the revolutionaries.”

“The leader of the revolutionaries?” Rhy repeats in amazement. “You are brave, my friend.”

“Brave, perhaps foolish, but most importantly grateful,” Holland replies. “They were kind enough not to kill me the first time I appeared in their company, so I’m repaying them by giving them a permanent seat at the table. Besides, Alma has one of the best strategic minds in Makt.”

Nasi perked up at the name, grinning at Holland before rattling off something excited and unintelligible in Maktahn. Holland replies very quickly in kind, his smile warming considerably when addressing her. And Rhy didn’t miss the long moment the czar’s eyes lingered on Kell, before he seemed to remember himself, collecting his features.

“My apologies.”

“Not at all, your commitment to your people is impressive. After meeting the Danes, it’s refreshing to see their successor be so different.” Rhy sets his cup down, then clasps his hands in his lap. Nasi had gone back to asking Kell every single question she could think of, so Rhy figured it was safe to move into more serious topics. “If you’re amenable to it, I would like to discuss a few points for the talks with you. Last time around, Arnes had no allies going into the initial proceedings, so I feel compelled to get this right with Makt.”

“Please, by all means.” Holland’s relief is palpable. Small talk isn’t for everyone, and Rhy was glad they no longer had to force it. “As it stands, every point is up for negotiation except for the matter of Osaron. It Athos Dane’s invention entirely, and it remains a human hazard in every sense you can think of. I will not have my country responsible for its creation and I will not allow it to be passed to anyone else.”

“Agreed.” Rhy swallows tightly. “If I ever hear of another gas attack, it will be too soon.”

“You served?” Holland’s eyes moved over him appraisingly. 

“Yes, in the London eighth same as Kell. Warrant officer first class, Kell was a captain and a medic. What were you?”

“Fieldmarshal, with the cavalry corps.” Holland sits up, considering Rhy a little more intently than he did Kell. “I assume you served at Sonal as well?”

The breath stops in Rhy’s throat. He pushes his tongue between his front teeth to keep his jaw from tightening perceptibly. He feels the weight of the earth around his knees, pressing to either side of his legs, creeping higher. Rhy takes a breath and rushes to answer before his mind consumes itself. “Yes, both of us. Kell was there the entire time. I missed out on July through September.”

“Ah, yes,” Holland nods. “Yes, Kell said you had been injured.”

“I was, yes,” Rhy takes a calculated deep breath, feeling Kell’s eyes on him. “I forgot you knew Kell from, from before. If you’ll excuse me, for a moment.”

“Please.”

“Thank you.”

Rhy stands and moves quickly to the hallway, sure his haste is noticed by everyone but not paying it any mind. Memory and fear has a stranglehold on his windpipe as he steps into the cool dark of the hallway. He waves off the guard and takes a few steps down the hall to be more assuredly alone. He was never alone, not even in his own rooms, and he missed it. Missed the illusion of it. 

He presses a palm into the wall, burying his face in his other. His heart races, pulse pounding hard up through his neck and temple, edging on giving him a headache. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right that second. Something, anything to calm his nerves and force the dark back into its closet, door locked safely against it. He cursed whatever terrible turn of luck had led to it coming out in front of a guest, a new  _ ally _ no less. 

_ No weakness, you can’t show weakness. You aren’t soft, you can’t be, not now. _

Rhy tries to focus on his breathing, but fails fast. He can still feel the paralyzing weight spreading across his back and shoulders, down over his chest and coiling around his neck. For a moment, he swears he can taste the dirt in his mouth, swears it’s stuck in his nose and ears again. He has to move his hand, grabbing at his shirtfront and buttons, just to remind himself that he’s above ground, that he can move freely. 

The hand wanders to his left side, to the depression where the bullet had gone through and the infection had set in a week later. The original wound had been reopened by his physicians at home, the neat sutures of the field surgeon destroyed as festering skin was cut out. The initial scar had been the size of his thumb. Now and forever, it was the size of his hand with the fingers spread wide. 

A crater that rose and spidered out over his chest.

It was the first thing he looked at in the morning. It was the last thing he saw every night. It was unsightly, painful. He couldn’t fathom anyone else seeing it, not when he hated seeing it himself. Hated carrying it with him everywhere he went. Feeling the stiffness settle in every rainy day, every time he slept on the wrong shoulder or pulled his arm the wrong way while shaking hands. 

_ No one can see it. Not even Alucard _ …

Rhy’s breath catches again and he coughs into his hand. He had lied to Kell as they stood on the front steps that morning. He wasn’t hoping Alucard Emery would appear, but desperately wanting. Wanting with all the fervor and lovesick madness he had felt when the man had enlisted, when he had left, when the letters had stopped coming. The same craving that had swallowed him whole in the first weeks, then cracked and worn away, waning and softening until none of it remained. 

Until Rhy had given up.

Until the Emery acceptance arrived a week ago.

Rhy shivered. No, no one could see him, least of all Alucard Emery. Holland Vosijk cannot know about his nightmares, how he walked through the hours of the day haunted. He would not show the same hand to the Taskons or Faro. He wouldn’t even show it to his own people, no matter how extensively his injuries had been reported in the papers. 

_ No, no Rhy. Stronger, son. Prouder. Just like me _ .

His father’s voice echoed in his head, a memory from years earlier. From when he was a little boy, still daydreaming of being the Steel Prince himself. And what was he now?

_ Just like me, Rhy. Repeat after me, son. You remember, just how I sound. _

Rhy straightening up. He remembered exactly what his father had sounded, exactly what he had told him to say.  _ I am Rhy Maresh. I am the prince of Arnes. _

_ Very good, but you’re missing one thing. Again. _

Rhy straightened up.  _ I am Rhy Maresh, I am the prince of Arnes, and I am having a conversation with a dead man. _

_ No, not that. Rhy, son, you remember. You are the prince of Arnes, and you are what? _

_ Unbreakable _ . Rhy thought, chewing into his lip.  _ I am Rhy Maresh, I am the prince of Arnes, and I am unbreakable _ .

_ Very good. Again _ . He could hear the smile in his father’s voice, the pride. Just as it had been years prior when they sat in the Soner Rast map room, studying the movements of troops and the extent of Arnes’ borders. Just the two of them.

“I am Rhy Maresh, I am the prince of Arnes, and I am unbreakable,” Rhy whispered into his hand, low enough that it wouldn’t echo off the brightly mosaiced walls. “King.  _ King _ of Arnes.”

_ Very good. Now, stand up straight and go back in there. Your guests are waiting. _


	27. February 1920: Kell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, y'all. We're back again with the long-awaited 1920 smut! Holland, Kell, and the excellent diplomatic relations between Makt and Arnes.  
> CW: safe, sane, consensual (and a bit vanilla) sex
> 
> That's all I have to say for myself, so enjoy!

The rest of the evening went without issue. Rhy recovered quickly from his brief episode, Holland and Kell both having the tact to not question it. Nasi had taken it upon herself to refresh his teacup, handing it to him with a whispered “are you okay?” Rhy had thanked her, then diverted her attention to a new kind of sweet.

Dinner unleashed a whole new round of questions from Nasi, including a memorable lesson on the proper way to eat a pomegranate. She had been entranced by the jewel-pink seeds as Kell emptied them into a bowl, demanding to inspect the fruit’s husk and marvelling at how much could fit in one fruit. Kell was more than happy to take the responsibility on, handily occupying Nasi while Holland and Rhy discussed serious things -- chemical weapons, debriefing the other attendees, the order of proceedings, and the uncertain threat that was Cora Taskon.

Nothing Kell did not already know and nothing the little girl needed to concern herself with.

She was a welcome distraction and Kell threw all his energy into keeping her entertained. It had been years since Kell had answered so many questions about anything other than the war. What kind of flower is that? What’s this flavor, and that one? Why does Kell wear black when everyone else wore different shades of red? What did the cup and rising sun on the Maresh seal mean? What was Kell’s favorite color, favorite animal, favorite book?

Maybe it was Nasi’s’ youth, her honest curiosity, or the fresh topics, but Kell felt as close to happy as he had in a long time. Happier, more energized, his brain and body not lagging behind one another. The appraising, approving smile Kell caught on Holland’s lips every time he glanced up certainly helped the feeling. Helped give him more hope that there may still be something between them. The way the man had greeted him had started the imagining -- Holland stepping up to him with a wide smile, pulling him into a fierce embrace, a warm  _ hello old friend _ whispered low in his ear. Kell had immediately returned the gesture and had been slowly melting ever since.

He was close to being a puddle on the tiled floor by the end of dessert, heart thrumming warm with wine and adoration. The four of them sat in the tea room, talking lightly and trading good-humored war stories. The candles glinted off the dark windows and wine glasses, turning all their faces a soft golden color and giving the room a fuzzy, romantic glow. Rhy looked settled and pleased, laughing and listening intently to their guest. Holland had loosened in the hours since he arrived, spinning out stories from Makt while holding a sleeping Nasi against his chest. The little girl had begun to doze in her chair an hour earlier, resting her cheek on the edge of the table, trying valiantly to keep her eyes open and listening to the men around her. She squirmed and protested when Holland lifted her into his arms, but exhaustion soon took her again.

It looked so very natural, the perfect image of father and beloved daughter. So very different from the stories of the Revolution, worker’s strikes, and strife Holland was regaling them with. So very far away from the man he had lain with in creaky beds in shitty roadside inns, far from home for both of them. This Holland was softer, easier, lighter. Life shone in his eyes and laced through his voice, cheeks handsomely flushed pink with drink. His smile made Kell’s heart stutter-stop every time it showed, even more so when it was directed squarely at him. 

Kell knew he was staring, knew Rhy could see the yearning writ large on his features. But Kell couldn’t bear to hide it, a complete departure from his reserved nature. He liked it showing, liked the feeling in his body, liked how it chased away the darkness. He found himself wondering which man he liked better -- the rough soldier with dark eyes and smokey voice, or the czar with bright eyes and ringing laugh. 

As they all stood from the table, the evening drawing to a close, Kell had made up his mind. He liked Czar Holland Vosijk -- and his neatly trimmed beard -- better.

Liked him the best, actually.

“Are you sure we can’t change your rooms?” Rhy asks in a whisper, inspecting the fast-asleep Nasi on Holland’s shoulder. She sniffed the air in her sleep, her lips just parted and one tiny fist resting close to her face. 

Holland shook his head, careful not to jostle her. “That’s very kind, but no. We’ll be fine with the one.”

“Then I’ll quit asking,” Rhy answered, sounding very nearly like his old self. “If you need anything, the guards are at your disposal, as well as my brother and I. Don’t hesitate to ask. I won’t accept your stay being anything less than comfortable.”

“Thank you,  _ mas hazra _ , Rhy,” Holland smiles. “I’m glad we have some time to get to know one another before the others arrive. One day, I’ll have you visit us in Makt so we can return your generosity.”

“We would be glad to. But first, sleep. Goodnight, Holland. Sleep well.”

“You also. Goodnight.”

Kell waited until Rhy was in his rooms, then turned to Holland. “I’ll show you to your rooms, if you like.”

“Please. Thank you, Kell.” 

Holland fell into step next to Kell as he walked towards the south wing. The light from the river casting low red light across the dim corridors of the Soner Rast. As soon as they were alone, Kell found all his words failing him. Even an apology for the air in the conversation wouldn’t form. He kept sneaking glances at the man, wanting so badly to reach out and touch but holding his hands tightly at his sides. They reached the doors all too soon and Kell was very sure he had lost his chance, just when he summoned his nerve again.

“Would you come in for a moment?” Holland asked quietly, completely heedless of the guards listening next to the door.

Kell nodded. “Of course.”

Holland smiled, walking inside. Kell was right on his heels, the door clicking shut behind him. The guest quarters all looked the same, changing only in color and furniture in accordance with a time of day. Kell’s rooms were deepest night, full of stars; Rhy’s were bright mid-morning sunlight. This room was the earliest breakings of dawn -- pale greys, creams, and blues adorned with the most unobtrusive gold the Mareshes could manage. The domed ceiling, stretching from a small sitting area to well over the posted bed, was painted in night-time clouds, the weak first light of morning peaking through between cracks and crevices.

Kell seated himself on one of the sofas, watching Holland walk to the bed. He pulls back quilts, blanket, and sheets and sits Nasi down on the edge of the mattress. He carefully undoes her braids, setting each decorative pin on the side table, then removes her shoes and the decorative top of her dress leaving her in a shift and knit tights. Holland lays her down, pulling the blankets all the way up to her chin. She stirs and reaches out without opening her eyes. Holland simply takes it, kisses the back, and tucks it under the blankets. 

She murmurs something that makes him smile. He smooths back her hair, kisses her forehead, then leaves the little girl to sleep. Holland walks over, lost in thought, unfastening his red belt and blue jacket. He sits next to Kell, a hand resting on the prince’s knee, his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“You look well,” Kell breathes. They are the only words he can manage.

“Thank you. You as well.” Holland’s hand squeezes, then turns over to sit palm up. He never takes his eyes off of Kell’s face, not for a second. Not even when Nasi makes a small noise in her sleep. Kell feels the air go still in his lungs, watching Holland lean in ever so slightly. “I’m sorry if this is too much, but I am very glad to see you.”

“It isn’t, the feeling’s mutual,” Kell says in a rush, sliding closer and laying a hand on top of Holland’s. “I, um… I don’t know what to say, honestly I don’t.”

Holland laughs low in his throat, squeezing fingers. “Then how about this? Hello, old friend. I’m so glad you survived.”

Kell grins. “Hello, old friend. It’s so good to see you.” Without thinking, Kell lifts their clasped hands and presses his lips to Holland’s knuckles. 

“Kell-.”

“Sorry, was that too far?”

“Not at all,” Holland whispers, inching closer. “Not nearly far enough, actually.”

“No?” 

Holland shakes his head, and Kell doesn’t need any more direction. He closes the gap, sighing into the warm press of lips and bumping noses. Sloppy and hasty, but backed up with all the sincere affection that had built up to him over tea and dinner and dessert. All the unusual sweetness that had been collecting in his heart, blood, and bones since he had found the crushed cigarette carton, confirming that one person he had known had not been lost. Just one person, alive and well, solid and warm under his hands.

Holland’s hands pull away from Kell’s, sliding up his arms, shoulders, and neck to cup his jaw. Kell leans into the touch, sighing contentedly. It was easy -- too easy -- falling back into this man’s arms, and yet Kell wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. 

He breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead to Holland’s. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the sound of their breathing, the thud of his heart in his chest. He feels the smile on Holland’s face, the hot flush of his skin radiating, and breathes a laugh. “You lied, back in 1916. You lied.”

“About what?”

“You weren’t a major,” Kell giggles, trying to keep his voice quiet. “You were a fieldmarshal, a cavalry commander, the right hand of the Danes. You were so much and you just said you were a major.”

Holland’s thumbs swipe over his cheeks, humor reaching all the way to his green eyes. “What does it matter? You lied too,  _ mas aven vares _ .”

“No, I didn’t. I  _ was _ a captain. I wasn’t really a prince until my parents died. Rhy made it official once he recalled me home.”

“And when was that?”

“A month after the last time I saw you.” Kell shakes his head and pulls Holland down for another kiss. He didn’t want to talk about that. It was too sad, too far in the past, and Kell wanted to hang onto every last moment of the good he was feeling right that second. Needed to cling to the warmth that twisted and curled in his stomach.

A minute later, Holland pulled away. “I organized that second strike after seeing you. I decided how I would force Athos to surrender as I was leaving you the next morning…” His voice breaks off as he stares at Kell.

“What?” Kell pushes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Not wrong, simply remembering,” Holland murmurs. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “That, seeing you then, it was unexpected. It was unreal and I remember thinking, believing that I was going to die soon. Whether on the front lines or at home at the Danes’ hands. I thought for sure I would be found out and I wouldn’t be able to see what I started through to the end. I was sure that you would be the last person I would be that close to and… I thought of it as saying goodbye.”

Kell leans back and away. A chill ran through his skin, wrapping around his ankles and anchoring him back to earth. All night he had been floating away, slipping into the patter of a hopeless romantic, forgetting what was at the core of their knowing one another was to begin with. Holland’s words had a special kind of weight to them, an individual weight that settled deep in Kell’s body. He just blinks and waits for Holland to say more, but the rest never comes.

So Kell does his best to fill in. “I’m glad it wasn’t goodbye. I… Come with me.”

“Where?” Holland’s brow creases.

“You’ll see, this way.” Kell stands, pulling the man up with him. He walks silently through the room, finding the door to the dressing room and slipping inside. It’s dark and quiet inside, out of sight and earshot.

Perfect.

“Why here?”

“I always thought it was easier to confess things in the dark.” Kell swallows, pulling Holland further into the room, dropping suddenly when his legs smack into a divan. They were in all the dressing rooms, but Kell had forgotten until he scrambled to catch his weight, Holland falling on top of him. “That… that didn’t go as I intended.”

Holland’s hands found the front of his shirt, pulling him down onto the floor next to him. “Nothing ever goes entirely as planned. I’ve found it's wise to be a little… flexible.”

“I already knew  _ that _ , Holland.”

“I should have --. Nevermind, well played.” Kell felt arms slide up around his back, slight pressure guiding him down. Kell followed it until he was lying on top of the older man, teeth nipping at his ear. “Since we’re confessing things in the dark… I confess I’ve been thinking about touching you since boarding that train.”

“In that case, I confess that I still have your medal and the cigarette box you put it in.” Kell lets his hands wander, finding the right way to slot and roll their hips together. “You can have it back if you like, major.”

“I don’t think so, blue-eyes. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a crown now.”

“So do I, but I confess I don’t want mine.”

“No? Then you’ll never have to wear it around me.” Holland makes a strangled noise as Kell rolls his hips together. He inhales sharply, slipping one of his own hands in between them, rubbing his fingers against Kell. “Is this a yes? You want this, from me?”

“Of course I do,” Kell groans.  Holland kisses him and Kell relaxes fully into the feeling, knowing that they would be left alone. That no battle raged outside the windows. Neither of them would be left lonely in the morning. Not quite safety, but better. Infinitely better than their previous run-ins, where death loomed and the only motivation was to not feel so numb, so empty, so dulled any longer. He laces his fingers together over the short dark hair and pulls the man back down, angling his face for their lips to just brush.

Holland lets him, adjusting and leaning more into the kiss. Kell lets his eyes shut, relying entirely on feel and deciding he was better for it. He unlaces his fingers, sliding them through Holland’s hair, over the back of his neck. There’s an extra thrill in looming over the man -- of leaning over a  _ king _ in bed. Kell stays still a moment letting his eyes adjust in the dark, taking in the dark green eyes, the fresh pink flush high in his cheekbones, the scant silver hairs throughout the black strands.

Kell runs a hand through Holland’s hair. Over his neck, his jaw, settling at his chin. He grasps a bit of the beard, tugging lightly. “I like this.”

“You might be the only one.” Holland smirks.

“Hmm, well,” Kell chews his lip and considers it. “It's softer now, which I like. Before… I might have told you to shave it too.”

“So I should keep it?” Holland reaches for Kell’s hand, pulling the man down on top of him. They narrowly avoid smacking foreheads, dissolving into laughter again.

“Yes,  _ please _ .” Kell feels all arms and legs, trying to get his bearings and failing miserably. He settles with his head against Holland’s, lips brushing lightly, warm breath running over his face. “It makes you look, what’s the word….  _ Shit _ … Distinguished. There. It makes you look  _ distinguished _ . Like a real king.”

“Not so easily impressed by a crown, are you  _ mas vares _ ?”

“I told you--.”

“I know you did. I’m ignoring you.” Holland pulls him down for another kiss.

Kell answers by deepening the kiss. He presses Holland’s lips open, tongues sliding against teeth. His chest heaves, starved for a proper deep breath, but he can’t bring himself to pull away again. Holland tastes like wine, smells like skin and salt, the day collected on his formal jacket. Kell settles further, pressing their hips together and deciding he missed the smell of gunpowder and freshly upturned earth on the other man. 

At least he was sure  _ he _ smelled better. 

Both times they had collided, it had been after weeks in the trenches and army camps. Not even a bath before leave could scrub away the coppery scent of blood, the ringing in his ears that followed every round of shelling, the dust and dirt and damp that would never leave the cuffs of his uniform. It coated him, hadn’t felt truly gone for months after he’d returned home. He was sure he would never be really clean. 

Now he felt clean, cleaner still for the man with him now.

Kell breaks the kiss, breaking his own rule. He pants, Holland staring up at him curiously. “No titles. Not like before. Alright? Just, just names.”

Understand flickers across Holland’s features and he nods. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“As if it was such a hardship,” Holland sighs. “No more talking, for now. We’ve talked all night.”

“All day,” Kell adds.

“Too long.”

Holland matches him moment for moment. Noses bump, teeth scrape against one another, lungs working hard to bring in a full breath, drunken giggling lifting into the air alongside panting breaths and small gasps. Heart curls in Kell’s stomach, twisting lower, knotting uncomfortably at his hips. He grinds his hips down against Holland’s. He grins madly at Holland’s gasp, how his head drops back against the cushions and he looks like he’s seeing all the stars at once. Kell rolls his hips again, pressing his face into the soft skin of Holland’s neck, nipping and sucking. 

His fingers find their way to the buttons of Kell's shirt, then to both of their shirts, quickly undoing them and pushing the fabric away. Kell blinks, takes a shallow breath, and he’s left in nothing but his trousers and socks, suspenders hanging limply around his hips and legs. Kell pauses, just long enough to get a grip on the room, but is pushed up to sitting by Holland. Strong hands pull his hips forward. Holland finds the knot of scar tissue over his collarbone, just as every time before. Kell collapses forward, decidedly ungraceful and well past caring. He presses his forehead to the older man’s shoulder, hips beginning to move of their own accord. 

The heat and tightness builds until Kell can’t string two words together to save his life. Holland moves quickly, expertly, over his neck and chest; fingers ghosting over scars and ribs, landing at Kell’s nipples and catching him when his back arches too far for him to keep his balance. 

“ _ Ah sanct _ ,” Kell gasps. “Good, very g-good. D-d’you want to move?”

“Where?” Holland’s voice vibrates up through his skin and bones. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, I-.”

“Then we’ll move later,” Holland hums, tongue sliding over Kell’s skin, making him shiver. “When we’re less on edge, then the..?”

“Up there?” Kell points blindly from the floor.

“Yes, up there.”

Kell laughs breathlessly, fumbling with the buttons of their dress pants. “Let’s do that.”

“Do what?”

“Take the edge off.”

“Gladly.” Holland leans away. He smiles wickedly and reaches for Kell’s hands, replacing them with his own. Another second and his palm slides against Kell, warm and dry skin over him. 

Kell moans, chin tucking to his chest and eyelids fluttering with each gulp of air. He tangles Holland’s dark hair in his fingers, rutting against the hand, finding the friction he’d been after all evening. Holland pushes his hand underneath the last barrier and Kell feels his cheeks flame at the noise that fell from his lips. 

“More.”

“More?”

“Yes, and, and, and f-faster.”

Holland recaptures his mouth, squeezing his hand around Kell’s cock and moving as asked. Kell moves with him, the blur at the edges of his vision encroaching further as heat spikes his blood and one goal over takes his thoughts completely. He can’t swear as long as his mouth is Holland’s. He can keep his voice down if he doesn’t break the kiss. Being silent is the last thing on his mind, but he still feels compelled to keep the noise down. No sense in waking the little girl in the next room.

His thighs tighten, the heat in his hips growing. His balance in Holland’s lap starts to falter as pleasure floods him. “H-Holland, please,  _ sanct _ .  _ There _ .”

He feels the world tip under him and he comes with a low groan, stifled by his mouth on Holland’s neck. The hand never slows, not until every bit of Kell’s climax has been wrung from him and their breathing has dropped back into shallow inhales. Kell doesn’t notice he had talked through it, doesn’t notice how dizzy he’d now become. Only Holland’s hand leaving him, strong arms back wrapped around his chest, the leather and sweat smell invading his senses yet again. 

“Is the edge, erm… off?” Holland murmurs.

“Yes, for now.” Kell inhales sharply, leaning further against Holland, threatening to tip them back onto the cushions. “Wipe it on mine, it’s alright.”

“What?”

“Here.” Kell pulls Holland’s hand back, wiping what was left of his climax against the black of his pants. Holland watches him, eyes bleary with arousal but still vaguely confused. Kell smiles back, drunk on pleasure more than liquor now. “There. Never liked these pants anyway.”


	28. Arnes, 1920: Alucard Emery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> After much trial and tribulation, I have finally finished three - yes, THREE -- full chapters of pure Rhy and Alucard content. First we start with Alucard, his arrival home, and some unfortunate discoveries on his part. I still haven't mastered all aspects of Alucard's story as it translates into this time period and scenario, but I hope you all enjoy how I am starting to reinterpret it. (For instance: you'll notice the ship he was on that sunk was not the Night Spire, but the Goldfish. I couldn't in good conscience sink the Night Spire. That's just cruel.)
> 
> Anyway, I'll stop stalling and let you all get started on reading. Thank you so much for your comments, kudos, and shares. I hope you all are staying safe and healthy in these strange, unnerving times. I don't mean to add to the clamor of adjectives. Just know I'm glad you're reading and I hope this dumb fic is helping just a little bit.
> 
> All the best,  
> Orchid

Alucard Emery stood on the bow of the ship, watching the water below turn pink then red. 

Caused only by a subtle shift in sand colors, the hue leaking out into the Isle river delta should have made him feel something significant. It should have brought on a wide relieved smile, a warm lurch of excitement in his stomach, maybe a final twinge of homesickness. But Alucard only felt the rocking boat beneath his feet, the cold wind at his ears, the weak winter sun at his back.

His sister would be there to meet him at the docks, the only welcome sight in the whole port of London.

_ You are here for Rhy _ , he reminded himself.  _ Rhy and your sister. Rhy and Anisa. Them alone. _

He knew he should be grateful, relieved, something other than curled in on himself and angry. Something other than bitter and cold. That state was second nature now, nearly his whole nature. A foul mood so far gone Alucard wondered if he could ever return to his old self. It wasn’t the first time the question crossed his mind, and he didn’t imagine he was the only Arnesian to think it in the last five years. 

Captain Alucard Emery had not been a fantastic rake since his ship had sunk underneath him and the Veskans had fished him from the water. In truth, he hadn’t been that since the Taskon assassination, leading to Vesk’s declaration of war on Faro. 

The  _ Goldfish _ was a trusty, battle-worthy vessel with a stupid name, but it had been  _ his _ and it didn’t deserve to be hulking scrap metal at the bottom of the sea.

Alucard scowled at the horizon line, pulling his great coat closer around him. It was the last piece of his uniform he’d been compelled to keep, having pawned the rest of it off bit by bit. 

His prison camp had been liberated eight months prior, but it had taken three and a half long years to get to that point. Maxim Maresh had taken his sweet time negotiating the freedom of his own citizens from the hands of the enemy -- the very same citizens who had lined up out of loyalty to serve the crown and be blown to pieces, strangled, drowned, shot-through. Alucard knew from his years in a holding cell that the Veskans were no treat to deal with, but the Golden King (or whatever they were calling him these days) could have done better.

_ Should _ have done better.

And Alucard couldn’t wait to tell the man as much, give him a piece of his mind right to his face. The third reason why Alucard had agreed to return to London.

A fourth reason: a royal invitation, complete with chalice and rising sun seal, was the fastest, cheapest ticket home. A guest of the royal family meant a spot on any Arnesian captain it was presented to, no fare to pay and no questions asked. A guest of the prince garnered no less than a second class bunk, or so Alucard had learned. 

With no assistance from the crown after the gates had been open and no word back from his family, Alucard was stuck without a way home. He had managed to walk as far as Sasenroche, just over the Arnesian border, and had been there ever since. He had been working to scrounge up enough for passage to London, or at least enough to negotiate for a ticket in steerage. Card games, cheating at card games, bartending, dish-washing, pawning anything of value, one or two outright thefts, even a few desperate attempts at the world’s oldest profession. 

Alucard hadn’t been above anything if it meant a free meal, a bed, or a few more coins in his pocket. 

When Rhy’s letter had found him -- by miracle alone, he was sure -- Alucard had just sold a length of his hair, bringing his grand total up to exactly three-fourths the cost of a third class ticket. He’d done the haircut himself, leaving longer front pieces where they had fallen out of his hands. He had tried to even it up while being on the ship, but gave up when the boat’s rocking became too unwieldy. He had resolved to ask Anisa to fix it and kept a hat shoved down low over his brow until that was possible. He wouldn’t let Rhy see him like this. Not when he had so much explaining to do.

He had promised to write. 

He had promised a letter a week. One letter, once a week, until he ran out of paper or ink or the war ended or they both died. One letter, once a week, until the end. His last one had been sent as Rhy and the rest of the RAEF was settling in at Sonal. Five days later, a Veskan U-boat had sunk the  _ Goldfish _ . Alucard had tried to get something to the young prince, but it had been confiscated immediately, Alucard labelled as a spy and thrown into isolation. He had tried again once he was free, but he lost all heart as soon as he set pen to paper.

Why would Rhy want to read some melodramatic sob-story disguised as a tragedy?

It had been years and there was no guarantee Rhy wouldn’t torch the letter without reading it. The official invitation proved otherwise. Alucard had never been so overjoyed to be proven wrong. Rhy still thought of him, had requested he be a part of the new negotiations with Vesk and the rest of the belligerents. This by no means meant Rhy still loved him, that Rhy would still want to be his after years of silence, but it must mean something hopeful. It counted, meant  _ he _ still counted.

Didn’t it?

It was all the hope Alucard had left. It was the reason he was standing on the bow of a trading ship in the middle of February, staring at the skyline of a city that didn’t want him. Why he was preparing to rejoin a country that had left him to rot for months. He couldn’t help but take it personally, just like every other soldier he had spent hours wasting away with. 

Another thing he would make damned sure to bring up to Maxim Maresh.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alucard didn’t see his little sister when he finally put boots to dry land, the first solid ground he’d seen in weeks. He didn’t see the thin-boned, delicate little girl in clean white lace and high-polished boots he had left at home. Not the small child with ribbons in her hair, like the photograph he kept tucked into the breast pocket of his coat for all five years. No, he didn’t see his little sister, but a much younger vision of his mother -- petite and lithe and innately graceful, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders against the new styles he’d seen, the Emery family blue eyes clear and piercing against the tan skin of her face.

His little sister, all grown up.

Alucard does some very quick math as he strides toward her, his bag over his shoulder and white cat at his heels. He was fourteen when she was born, she was only ten when he shipped out, and he was fast approaching his thirtieth birthday… He realizes with a start that Anisa was nearly fourteen years old now. As she runs towards him and Alucard drops his bag to lift her into his arms, a lump forms in his throat.

He had missed so much.

“What on earth did you do to your hair?” She asks, her silvery laugh cutting over the din of the London docks. 

“I made a poorly calculated bet,” Alucard grins into her hair. “What did you do with my kid sister, young lady?”

“I grew up. Didn’t you know that’s what happens when you leave forever?” He sets her down and she kisses him on both cheeks. She smiles up at him for a long time, then blinks as the white cat clambers back up onto his shoulders. “Is that yours?”

Alucard nods. “Indeed. Isn’t she lovely?”

“Very, even more so since Berras will hate her. What is she called?”

“She’s not called anything.”

“You can’t have a pet that’s not called anything!” Anisa exclaims. “I’ll think of a name for her since you’re too lazy to. Where did you find her?”

“I thought you sent her to me!” Alucard teased, scratching the cat under the chin and earning a happy chirp for himself. “Are you telling me you didn’t send her to me? I could have sworn she was a present from you. See, she’s got pretty blue eyes and an attitude just like you.”

Anisa rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I didn’t know where you were to send you a letter, let alone a feline…” She reaches her hand up to let the cat sniff, then lick in approval. “But she is sweet. I suppose I could take credit for her, especially if you’re letting me name her.”

Alucard hums. “And what is her name?”

“Esa, I think. Surely you can remember something that’s three letter letters long.” Anisa paused, reaching and lacing her fingers in his. “Welcome home, Luc. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Nissa.” Alucard squeezes her fingers in his. He picks up his bag and they start walking towards the city proper. She nearly came up to his shoulders now, something that surprised him even if she was wearing heeled boots. She was so grown up, it was painful. “When did you get tall? You’re not supposed to be tall yet.”

Anisa laughs. “When did you get old? You look old, Luc.”

“I’m hurt. Home for all of two minutes and I’ve already been wounded. By my beloved sister no less.”

“I didn’t mean--.”

Alucard hushes her. “I know you didn’t, I’m only teasing you. But you aren’t entirely wrong though. I  _ am _ older, and I certainly  _ feel _ older than I should. I don’t suppose the state of my hair is helping at all.”

“Not at all. You have  _ got _ to do something about that mess before I let you in front of the king!” Anisa tugs him in the direction of the Night Market. He lets her, happy to be around someone who was happy to see him, happy to be lost in throngs of people and all the color he remembered growing up with. He follows her, spinning her back into him when she threatens to get too far ahead.

“Why should I care one whit what the king thinks of my hair?” Alucard scoffs. “I loyally served in his navy, I never said a word when they put pressure on me, I came back at his son’s request. Besides, Maxim never liked me to begin with. A haircut isn’t going to change that, Nissa.”

Anisa stops dead in the middle of the market, not minding the current of Londoners flowing around them. Her brow was creased in confusion, her blue eyes worried. “Alucard, what are you talking about?”

“What am I..? I’m still bitter about how long those peace deals took and I won’t feel sorry for it.”

Anisa only blinks at him, stunned.

“Nissa, please. If you hold that face any longer, you’ll look like Berras,” Alucard says. “What’s wrong with what I said? Is Maxim oh so very popular after four years of wartime?”

Anisa clears her throat, then tugs him by the sleeve off to the side of the street. Esa meows indignantly, hopping off to sit at Alucard’s feet. “Luc… Maxim Maresh, he, he’s dead. He’s been dead since 1917, the queen too. They were killed right before Makt called for a ceasefire, caught in crossfire during a review of the troops with Rhy.”

The blood drains from Alucard’s face. “ _ Sanct _ , Anisa… Are you serious?”

“Did you never hear?”

“No. I was in a prison camp. Anisa, I-.” Alucard’s heart is ahead of his brain, understanding his sister’s words before he could put coherent words to his thoughts. Numb, he shakes his head. His heart hammers and his head starts to spin. 

He feels his sister’s hand wrap around his arm. “Luc? Are you alright?”

“So, so Rhy… Rhy is…  _ sanct _ , Niss, 1917? That, that means Rhy was, Rhy is --.  _ Shit _ .” Alucard cuts himself off, dropping to his knees and digging through his rucksack, then rummaging through his coat pockets. He knows he’s drawing stares from the people passing by, but he brushes them away. It wouldn’t be the first time, and this was more important than anything else. He doesn’t stop until he finds the treasured piece of paper, creased and softened by his fingers over the weeks since he received it. He shoves it into Anisa’s hands as he stands. “Does that say  _ padishah _ to you?”

Anisa reads the note, inspecting all the details and royal seals, the officialness of it. Her eyes widen perceptibly at the signature Alucard has long since memorized.

_ Tas vares Rhy Maresh. _

_ Your prince, Rhy Maresh _ .

She hands it back to him, nervously picking at the lace of her sleeve. “I, I don’t have an answer for that, but I imagine you’ll get the moment to ask him yourself.”

“You think so, Anisa?” He says tightly, still ruling as he puts all the pieces together.

Anisa nods. “I do. I know you will.”

“How’s that?”   
“Kell -- who’s crown prince now, by the way -- has been coming by every week, asking Berras when you would be arriving,” Anisa whispers. “Why wants to see you, Luc. I know he does.”

Alucard exhales sharply and takes Anisa’s hand again. “You were always the smartest oof us, the best of us… I trust you. And even if he doesn’t want to see me, you still want me home don’t you?”

“Don’t tease about that, Luc,” Anisa sighs. “Of course I want you home.”

“Right,” Alucard murmured, eyes settling far above the rooftops, settling on the shining golden dome over marking the Soner Rast. “Right… only teasing…”

His world had tilted beneath his feet, shifted underfoot and he wondered if it would crack open and swallow him whole. The pile of things he had missed, had forgotten, had gotten lost in the shuffle of warships and mud, had never known to begin with was growing steadily into a mountain. It made him dizzy, his thoughts swirling like a water spout. He just held Anisa’s hands, allowing her to guide him through the streets, first to a clothiers, then a barber’s shop.

Rhy was no longer simply  _ mas vares _ . Not now how he had signed his letter.

_ Vares Rhy Maresh _ , Warrant Officer Rhy Maresh, even simply his Rhy. No, not anymore.

He was now  _ Padishah Rhy Maresh han hazretlieri _ .

_ His royal majesty, King Rhy Maresh _ .

It took Alucard’s breath away. Alucard Emery stared into the smooth glass of the barber’s mirror, wondering sadly how much he had changed. He hoped it wasn’t as drastic as his hair or his mood. He hoped this Rhy, whoever he was, would still love him, still see him.


	29. Feb. 1920: Rhy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I expect it would take me a whole month to update this fic? No, absolutely not.  
> Am I glad it didn't take longer to update? Yes, totally.  
> Is this the time where I tell you I'm going to update again within the week? Yep, spot on.  
> Is that actually going to happen? ... Probably not.
> 
> In any case, thank you all for reading and enjoying. For leaving kudos and comments and sharing. I hope you all are doing well, staying safe, staying healthy, and that a little bit of pining, vaguely touch-starved Rhy Maresh will cheer you up for a few minutes today. (Next up, Rhy and Alucard shall we say... reconnect.)
> 
> Enjoy!

The wine was going down easier now.

_ As it should be _ , Rhy thought, scanning the small crowd before him. It was an old vintage, properly cellared, a rich ruby red. A bottle from the Southern coast of Arnes that his mother had loved, prized, and collected. Rhy was now, finally, enjoying the fruits of her labors. 

Kell had tried steering him off the alcohol completely, but Rhy brushed him off. He hadn’t had a real drink in months and Kell’s paranoia wasn’t going to keep the young king from indulging that night. Negotiations between all four nations began first thing in the morning. Rhy had already sworn off the bottle until the proceedings had concluded.

But tonight, he was halfway through his fourth glass. Feeling loose and warm, Rhy was in better spirits than he had been in a long while. The delegates from Faro and Vesk had arrived in the last three days. All introductions had gone smoothly and no one was unhappy with their lodging. The new Maktahn king was being well-received, as Rhy knew he would be. All of them having witnessed the predatory Dane twins first hand during the last meeting, Holland Vosijk was a refreshing change. His little princess, Nasi, was quickly charming her way through every foreign entourage, even warming up the naturally cold-spirited Col Taskon.

And none of the guests had noticed Kell’s sneaking around with Holland. Simply old friends from the war as far as anyone else knew or cared to know. Rhy trusted his brother to be discreet, and Kell could hold secrets like no one else he knew.

Things were going well.

And still Rhy was unsatisfied. Impatient. Still waiting for one man’s arrival; hoping against reasonable hope that he would stride through the ballroom doors as if the last half-decade had never happened.

Isra had said his ship had docked the day before, that he had indeed been on the manifest and his younger sister had been the one to receive him at the docks. The man was in the city, was home, but knowing that wasn’t enough for Rhy. He had been on pins and needles, waiting anxiously to set eyes on the long-lost Alucard Emery.

All the worry he’d felt when the letters went unanswered, then stopped entirely. The consuming despair when he’d learned the  _ Goldfish _ had been sunk. All the agonizing sadness that had twisted around his heart when it dawned on him that Alucard could be dead, gone for good. Volatile, tumultuous emotions Rhy had long since learned to beat down, dull himself to, and ignore entirely. 

It had all come back, flooding him fast enough to make him nauseous. 

A tidal wave of paralyzing fear, followed by another one of crippling joy, so strong Rhy could hardly contain them. The only other trusted ear he had was Kell, who found Alucard irritating on a good day. So Rhy kept it bottled, all of it, and held it tightly in his chest. As soon as he was safely behind closed doors, he thrilled at letting it all pour out. 

Every night spent alone, for years on end. He hoped tonight would be different.

So Rhy watched and waited. He took wide turns of the room, moving from conversation to conversation. Friendly with Princess Nasi, and the scattered members of Arnes’  _ vestra _ families he had invited as a nicety. Pleasant but still guarded with Col and Cora Taskon, Lord Sol-in-Ar from Faro, but always watching the door out of the corner of his eye.

The wine had dampened away the cutting voices that had taken up residence in his head. Even the thought of the disappointment returning in the morning couldn’t shake the anticipation. The excitement gnawing at his bones. The dread seeping cold into his skin.

_ Would he come? Would he not? _

_ Would he want to see Rhy? _

_ Had the war left Alucard broken and scarred too? Or had he remained the same? _

_ Would Rhy still be allowed to reach out, to touch, like he used to? _

“ _ Mas hazra _ , are you quite alright? You seem distracted this evening.”

Rhy took a drink and cleared his throat, focusing back on the woman in front of him. “Pardon me, Lady Loreni. All the excitement has left my thoughts drifting. Would you please remind me what we were talking about?”

The woman smiled kindly. “Of course,  _ mas hazra _ . We were talking about the addition of fabric to the necessary rations.”

“Ah, yes,” Rhy smiled brightly, kicking himself. “Thank you. Please, do go on.”

He did his best to keep up with the conversation, but his mind still wandered long after he had moved on to the next conversation, the next greeting, the next delegate. He quit taking sips from his glass, hoping that the fog would lift with less drink. It didn’t and Rhy eventually resorted to pulling Kell to his side to keep up for him. The brothers kept up an easy charade, back and forth moving through the rest, until the guests were asked to move towards the dining room. 

“Rhy, are you--?”

“Fine. I’m fine, Kell,” Rhy answered quickly, handing his glass to Kell. “Go ahead, find a seat next to Holland. I’m just going to make sure everyone--.”

Kell held up a hand. “I understand perfectly.” 

Rhy squinted at his brother, then sighed. “You always do, don’t you?”

“It’s my job to, Rhy,” Kell shrugged.

“Kell, it isn’t --.”

“It is.” Kell leveled a stern gaze at him. “I don’t mind it. Tell him I said hello, would you?”

“If he arrives.”

“He will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because even I couldn’t manage to scare him away from London, so long as you’re here.” Kell smirked and spun. “Five minutes. Wouldn’t want to start any unnecessary rumors.”

Rhy crossed his arms and listened to his brother leave.

Then the last of his guests departed.

And still no Alucard.

Rhy sagged as he counted out the last of the few minutes, eyes trained on the door. His hope sputtered and failed, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest. Nodding to himself, the young king spun on his heel and walked briskly towards the dining room. He pressed the back of his hand to his eyes, erasing any evidence that his disappointment had gotten the better of him, that he had been doing the exact thing that Kell had warned him against.

Hoping and pining like a teenager.

He paused just beyond the open door to collect himself, something he did more frequently now. Keep up appearances, fix all the emotions behind a mask, never let you enemies or allies know what lies beneath. Rhy knows he’d been doing it since childhood, a habit handed down by his parents. When his parents were still alive, Rhy had been able to indulge in letting the mask slip a fraction of an inch. Skating through parties, flirting with anyone he wished, flashing a winning smile being just enough to draw someone in; an easy invitation to have the crown prince at his most vulnerable.

It’s how he had run into Alucard Emery to begin with. One of the many evening balls hosted in the rooftop ballroom, a few sparkling smiles, the warm press of hands against his. They had talked, absorbed in one another for the rest of the evening. At the end Rhy had given the older man an unmistakable offer. 

Alucard had accepted. 

Rhy had led the way.

In one fell swoop, Rhy Maresh had collided, tripped, and fallen over the edge of sense. He had fallen for three years, happily, confident Alucard would be there to catch him again. 

And then he was gone.

_ And you’re pining for yours like a teenager _ … 

Kell’s voice rang in his ear, jerking Rhy up and out of his thoughts. He didn’t have to lift his head to know his guards were watching him, concerned for him, knew the certain weaknesses he carried. Should they wish to do away with him -- like the guards of Makt did away with the Danes -- Rhy knew he would have been an easy target. He likely wouldn’t have found it in himself to fight back, wouldn’t have blamed them.

Rhy took a breath, pushing away the thought, and looked up to see Isra inspecting him. “Do I look presentable enough?”

“More than,  _ mas hazra _ ,” she answered quietly. “Even your mother would be hard pressed to take issue.”

“You’re too kind,” Rhy smirked. He pulls himself. “Well, better not keep them waiting.”

He hears Isra shift forward as he steps into the dining room. A bright grin spreads over his features, one he hopes looks natural in the low light. The table was filled, each guest standing behind their chairs, chatting amicably. A hush falls over the room as Rhy approaches -- another thing he enjoyed as a prince but hated as a king. He makes his way to the head chair, Kell seated to his right and Cora Taskon to his left, the little princess Nasi bouncing on her toes next to Holland. 

Things were going well, he reminded himself. Things were going very well.

Rhy stepped in front of his chair, reaching for his wine glass and smiled. He scanned the gathered guests with the glass raised, crystal glinting in the low candlelight. Just like he remembered his parents doing year after year. Just like his father taught him to do for his eighteenth birthday, right before he would make the case to enlist. He could feel his father’s shadow just behind him, his hand guiding his arm.

“Good evening, everyone.”

_ Smile, just like that. Chin up, son. Very good, keep your elbow up. There. _

Down the left side, up the right. Quickly but efficient, effective. Every place setting was accounted for, every person in their spot, every seat filled.

_ Eye contact with every person, no matter who they are or what hell the have planned for you… Right there, just that, and-- _ .

Rhy’s gaze caught for a second -- a moment more than he should have allowed -- on a familiar face. Thinner, lined, but the same face, the same hair, those same dark blue eyes. Rhy’s smile felt true as he moved through the last of the guests and ended on Kell. The only person who would read the truth held in his expression. The only person who knew what having that particular place filled meant to Rhy. Who knew how hard Rhy’s heart was beating in his throat as he held his wine glass close to his chest and finished his greeting.

“Good evening,” Rhy continued, voice stronger, back straighter. “There will be time for true formalities tomorrow and I would hate to delay our meal any longer, so I’ll say only this. Welcome to Arnes, thank you for your presence at our table, and may this endeavor be an auspicious start to a new decade. Thank you, and enjoy.”

As they sat and trays and plates appeared, Rhy let his gaze drift back to Alucard and linger there. Just for a moment before he settled back in his chair, falling into light conversation with Cora, watching Kell patiently answer Nasi’s every question. A new, unfamiliar warmth spread through his limbs, across his skin and down to his bones, filling him top to bottom. Rhy let it live there, wracking his brain to place the feeling from salad until just before dessert. It struck him as he reached for a cup of tea, his eyes meeting Alucard’s for a third time that evening.

Satisfaction.

That’s what it was.

Satisfaction that Alucard had materialized from thin air. Satisfaction that Rhy’s letter hadn't only been a ticket home for the man and Kell’s pestering the Emery estate had seemingly worked. Satisfaction sourcing in the quiet knowledge that Alucard’s eyes had softened for him from across the dinner table, had shone just for him however briefly.

Alucard was here, still looked at him the same way. And Rhy was not about to let it escape him so easily again.


	30. February 1920, P.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! Guess who finally got her shit together and finished a chapter after two months!   
> It me!!
> 
> Anyway, hello again! Long time no see, but I'm glad you all are still here. It's been quite a long few months and I've found myself without the kind of energy I had when I started this story all the way back in February. To those of you who remember that time, thank you for sticking with me. For those of you who are new to the campfire, welcome and I'm glad to have you here. I hope you enjoy this next chapter and I look forward to getting the second installment (Alucard's POV) posted very soon. I think I've got some of my writing mojo back, so maybe I'll finish this insane tale someday. Who knows?
> 
> If you have any questions, hit me up in the comments or wander over to my Tumblr (@orchidscript) and I'll be sure to give my best answers! Anyway, enjoy!

Rhy sighs happily against Alucard’s lips, discreetly adjusting his shoulders and back against the wall he was currently pressed to. He had waited weeks, months, wondered for years if he would ever have another moment like this. Weeks, for soft brown hair running through his fingers. Months for the familiar taste of the other man’s wine on his tongue. Years for the push and pull of Alucard’s body and his, easy and natural as the tide.

Waiting three long years for another letter to arrive.

And now he had the man in front of him, in person. Well and truly alive.

Older, tired, very much changed. But alive. Rhy knew that was the true for him as it was for Alucard, but some things remained unmoved. He smelled the same -- salt, fresh air, something spiced and bright. He felt the same under his hands, still appeared exactly the same save for a few thin lines by his eyes and whatever had happened to his hair.

And, for tonight, that was all that mattered to the young kind. Of how many thousands who lived within the borders of Arnes, only Alucard Emery could bring Rhy Maresh to his knees.

And happily so.

Rhy’s fingers had made quick work of Alucard’s dress shirt minutes earlier. Now, the navy captain returned the favor, fumbling with the high collar of Rhy’s court coat before moving down to his trousers. Divulged of his coat and shirt, Rhy pushed up off the wall and steered the two of them towards the bed. He pushed Alucard up against the bedpost, grinning into the skin of his neck. He nipped and sucked, trailing his fingers under the edge of Alucard’s trousers. He growled, low in his throat, hearing the shift in the other man’s breath.

“Should I keep going?” Rhy murmured. 

Alucard laughed breathlessly. “Should you keep going… I should hope you would.”

“What would you have me do?”

“So many things,” Alucard sighed. He pulls his face back to better look him in the eyes. “All of them well below your station,  _ mas hazra _ .”

Rhy’s smile faltered, but didn’t fall. “No, no. Don’t call me that. Not between us, Alucard.”

“That explains my letter,” Alucard lifted Rhy onto the bed with a smile. “Not enjoying your new position, Rhy?”

Rhy shook his head. “I’m not, yet, but… Well. I’d like not to discuss all that right now. You’re here, finally, and I want to enjoy it.”

Alucard smirked. “Enjoy  _ me _ , I think you mean.”

Rhy kicked off his shoes and reached for Alucard’s hips. “Why would I mean anything else, Luc?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alucard shrugged, stepping out of his own shoes. He leaned in, kissing Rhy fully and guiding him down to the silken red blankets. “You’ve always been good at keeping yourself entertained. I can only imagine what sort of things you’ve tangled yourself up in since I’ve been away.”

“Not as many as you might think,” Rhy gasped. 

“No?” Alucard leaned up, his hair brushing over Rhy’s nose and brow. “Rhy Maresh spent a night alone? I’m shocked.”

Rhy rolled his eyes, banishing the lonely feeling that threatened to well up. “I spent every night alone, Alucard. Fucking in a trench doesn’t have the same appeal as a captain’s quarters.”

“I’m certain it doesn’t,” Alucard hummed. He recaptured Rhy’s lips, warming the younger man back up before tucking a hand between his legs. A groan escaped Rhy’s lips, his eyes fluttering shut. “And neither compares to a palace bedroom, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” Rhy panted and squirmed, grinning with the tip of his tongue pressed against his top teeth. He pushed his hips into the other man’s palms. He looked up at Alucard and into his sea-blue eyes, darkened with lust. “Did you? Have anyone, I mean.”

Alucard’s expression dampened, across between uncertainty and guilt swirling there. His hand stilled against Rhy. “Would you forgive me if I had?”

Rhy pushed himself up onto one elbow, bringing their faces closer together. Rhy studied the new age on Alucard’s features -- the lines in his tan skin, the scant silver threading through his newly shorn hair. He leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to Alucard’s forehead. “What’s there to forgive, Luc?”

“I’m not sure,” the older man exhaled, pulling his hand away. “It feels like there should be, like I should ask for your forgiveness…”

Rhy shook his head. “None of it matters. I’ll forgive you anything so long as you can do the same for me.”

“Rhy?” Alucard’s brows knit together.

Rhy shook his head again.

“Another thing for another day?”

“Yes, if that’s… acceptable.” Rhy chewed his lip, watching Alucard through the thin black curtain of his eyelashes. He pressed a hand firmly to Alucard’s chest, pushed his hips back against his hand. “You asked if I had been with anyone, and the answer was no. So I’m hoping you’re willing to help me make up for lost time, Alucard.”

Alucard didn’t need telling twice. He leaned his forehead into Rhy’s. “Gladly,  _ mas vares _ .”

“Thank you,” Rhy sighed contentedly, dropping back onto the bed. He smiled rakishly, arcing his neck to expose a large swath of tender, warm, brown skin. “I missed you, Alucard.”

Alucard kissed the young king deeply. Rhy met him touch for touch, press for press. His back arched up into the man’s chest and hips. He moaned, savoring the taste of wine and sugar on the man’s lips leftover from dessert. Falling back into easy, thoughtless patterns, Rhy lets his legs drag up Alucard’s sides to wrap firmly around his waist. He slid his tongue into Alucard’s mouth and pressed their hips together with less skill than he would have liked. He didn’t like the idea of being so badly out of practice, but it didn’t matter. Alucard still moaned into his mouth, thrusting his clothed hips into Rhy’s.

“I missed this,” Rhy confessed to the ceiling in a whisper. Alucard moved quickly from his lips to his neck. He made quick work of Rhy’s shirt while nibbling along his jaw, sucking hard at his ear lobe.

Rhy rocked with every movement. His mouth fell open in a gasp, his eyes wide as he stared up at the intricately painted ceiling. His trousers grew tighter with every second. His heart raced underneath his ribs, pulse pounding in his veins. Pleasure overcame his every nerve, leaving him dizzy, panting, disoriented. True heat bloomed in his limbs for the first time in years.

He helped Alucard wrestle his shirt from his shoulders, shuck the trousers from his legs. Rhy tangled his fingers in the older man’s short hair, yanking him into another crushing kiss. His hands wandered to the fastening of Alucard’s trousers, fumbling a bit as he undid them and forced them down over Alucard’s slim hips. Undressed to his satisfaction, Rhy hooked his fingers into Alucard’s underwear and guided him further up the bed.

He was sweating. His nerves caught fire with every swipe of Alucard’s hands across his skin. He drowned in warmth, consumed by the lust that had been bubbling in his brain since dinner. Breathing hard and rolling on the soft blankets, Rhy Maresh feels like he’s meant for his skin.

Rhy Maresh feels alive.

Alucard rolls them, pinning Rhy on his back with a wide smile. Rhy returns the expression with a laugh. He’s achingly hard, a hair’s breadth from demanding Alucard get on with it already. But words fail him. He can only gasp and squirm as Alucard dives back against his neck.

Alucard’s hair brushes against his chin and cheek. His teeth scrape lightly against his jaw, his nose pressed against the late-night stubble. 

Rhy whimpers, throwing his hands up over his head to clench desperately at his pillow.

Alucard’s hands massage at his waist, hips, and thighs, settling finally to cup and knead his backside. He positions himself squarely between Rhy’s legs, sliding his cock against Rhy’s.

Rhy moans. His heels dig into the small of Alucard’s back.

Teeth scrape again, across his jaw and down the straining tendons of his neck. Sucking a sure bruise and nibbling at the sensitive skin. Tongue licks a flat, wet, stripe over his collarbone and up onto the rise of his shoulder, then back down. Hands massage, hips press, legs squeeze, then teeth sink into skin.

Rhy freezes, a fearful gasp tearing from his throat. He clutches at his hair, pressing his palms against his closed eyes. “Oh no, no no no…”

He could feel the raised, knotted scar now, can feel the pulse and the itching nerves underneath it. He can feel pain circling, the memory of the bullet wound, the field measures taken to get the piece of metal out, the following infection that invaded his skin.

He can feel it, sitting hard and unmoving on his chest. The mattress sinks beneath him and, for a terrifying moment, Rhy is sure it's the trench opening up under him. For a moment, he can smell the dry, flat, dusty wastes of Sonal in July.

For a moment, he can feel the bullet rip through his uniform, his skin and muscle all over again.

For a moment, the scent of blood floods his nose.

“Not there, not there. You’re not there,” Rhy mumbled to himself. “You’re home. You’re home.” All the warmth leaves his skin, all the vitality that had grown there at long last. All of it, gone in an instant. And all Rhy can do is curl in on his side, face buried in his hands.

He forgot Alucard Emery was there, forgot he was not alone for once, until Alucard’s hand settled on his back. It was gentle, but still Rhy jumped.

“Rhy--.”

The young king shakes and pulls away, nearly falling off the side of the bed. He can’t hear Alucard’s voice over the pounding fear in his ears. A hand flies up to cover the scar. Rhy pulls it away and replaces it a few times, his brain desperately checking for blood, for torn tissue. Hands shaking uncontrollably, Rhy lets out a shallow gasp and stumbles backwards.

“Rhy!”

His eyes flash up to Alucard’s. Dark blue, endless. The lust was gone, the love was gone. Only worry remained there.

“I-I… I c-can’t, I can’t,” is all Rhy can manage before he rushes into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He only starts to breathe easier when his knees smack against the cold tile.


	31. February 1920

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last installment of the Rhy and Alucard bit, but we will be circling back later! Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you all enjoy :)
> 
> I love chatting and answering questions -- come hit me up over on Tumblr @orchidscript!

Alucard sat frozen on the bed, staring at the now-shut bathroom door. 

Rhy had been there, then gone. Had slipped through his fingers as easily as sand. A door slammed, a lock clicked into place, more noise that Alucard couldn’t place immediately. His head swam with thoughts, not one quiet loud enough above the rest.

Rhy had been there, then gone. And Alucard had not been quick enough to grab him back.

He couldn’t bring himself to move, staring dumbfounded at the door. He had had Rhy back in his arms, warm and alive and very much himself. He had watched that same man evaporate in front of him. Turn from honeyed encouragements and gasps to shallow, panicked breaths and wild, unfocused eyes. 

_ You’re not there… you’re home… _

Rhy’s shattered, quivering voice still rang in Alucard’s ears. The way he had jerked away from him, sliding off the bed to nearly run backwards into the wall. The frantic touching and checking, fingers prodding into the skin of his chest as he looked for something that was not there. Or, not there in the manner the young king was imagining.

Alucard knew the scar had not been there the last time. His sister had said the prince had been injured, but not to what extent -- Alucard guessed Emira had kept a tight grip on that piece of information. He had seen the twisted, spider-webbing scar. He had put two and two together.

Alucard had not put all of it together.

Rhy was gone.

Alucard had let him go.

Half of his brain toyed with the idea of redressing and going to find Kell, but the other half sneered at the thought. The redhead had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. Alucard didn’t imagine that sentiment had changed much in the intervening years, no matter how much softer Kell Maresh had looked at dinner, animatedly entertaining a child. No, Alucard didn’t relish asking Kell for help and, as his eyes trailed the room to land on the pile of clothes on the floor, he resolved not to.

If he could not help Rhy through this -- whatever it was, exactly -- then Alucard did not deserve him.

The captain took a deep breath and slid from the mattress. His feet were nearly soundless as he walked about the bed. He redressed in just his undergarments then walked quietly to the bathroom door, Rhy’s clothes balled up in his arms. 

For a moment, Alucard doesn’t speak. He doesn’t announce himself. He simply leans his forehead against the carved and painted wood, his eyes closing as he listens. Uneven breathing and hiccups echoing against tile, faint coughs and sniffs stifled by hands. The sound of quiet pacing back and forth across the floor, stopping and starting in time with worried, erratic thoughts. Alucard’s heart clenches again, guilt flooding him completely. 

“Rhy?” Alucard starts as gently as he can manage. 

The pacing stops dead. Cold silence sets in.

“Rhy, would you let me in?”

“I-In?” Rhy’s voice is brittle and faint. Alucard wouldn’t have heard him were it not for the pin-drop silence hemming them in. “You, y-you want..? N-No, no. No.”

“Please, love?” Alucard is one step from begging. “Please. I have your clothes--.”

“You should go,” Rhy cuts him off. He sounds no stronger than before. “Alucard, you should go. Please, go. I…” A harsh exhale echoes through the door. “I don’t want your pity.”

“And you don’t have it,” Alucard says. “There’s no pity here, Rhy, swear on my life.”

There was a harsh exhale from the other side of the door. Alucard counted the seconds, praying quietly that things would not spiral further. He and Rhy had only been back in one another’s company for a few scant hours -- not nearly enough time to redeem himself. Alucard would not let things fall apart so quickly; if he had it his way, they never would. Worry rose up and consumed him, wrapped around his throat and jaw, snaking to his ankles and rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t bear to move until Rhy answered.

Alucard counted to thirty before the air changed around him. Soft footsteps sounded from the other side of the door, moving closer.

“Everyone pities me, Alucard.” Rhy’s voice was close enough to touch now. Alucard leans his forehead to the door, a small part of him pretending he could step through the wood and wrap Rhy in his arms. “My parents are dead. I inherited the throne too young. I was shot through the chest alongside my brother and nearly died of infection. Our country is barely recovering even now. If it weren’t for pity alone, the people would have overthrown me months ago.”

Alucard sighed and leaned away from the door. Rhy’s clothes dropped to the floor in a heap and Alucard sat down next to them. He could see Rhy’s feet from here, a reassuring sign that the man was still there, still listening. “Is that how you got your scar?”

“Did you not know?”

“I didn’t know your parents were dead until my sister was kind enough to tell me. News from home didn’t quite reach the prison camp I was in.”

“Prison camp?” Rhy asked in wonderment.

Alucard sighed. “In Vesk. My boat sank off the coast in 1916 and, when they discovered my last letter to you in my pocket, I was put in isolation. Anisa was kind enough to bring me up to date on the world before I arrived for dinner this evening.”

A strange silence settled between them. It was one born of mutual longing and individual pain, the shame of speaking truth to someone else, the fear of what may come next. Alucard sat on the cold marble floor, his eyes watching the crack under the door. The way Rhy shifted his weight, rolled up onto his toes then back down onto his heels, stepping back then stepping forward. On edge, uncertain, slowly making up his mind.

The silence made his hair stand on end, so Alucard resolved to just keep talking.

“I have spent the last three years of my life believing that I was going to be forever stuck in Vesk. It took an eternity for us to be released, longer still to earn enough to try haggling for passage back to London. I’ve been washed up in Sasenroche this whole time.” Alucard took a steadying breath and continued. “If it weren’t for your letter, I never would have gotten back. I might have stopped trying. I’m here for you, Rhy. Not for the Peace Talks, not for my family, and certainly not for London. I came because  _ you _ asked… because I thought you had forgotten me.”

Alucard closes his eyes and squares his shoulders. He takes several deep breaths, centering himself. Many times during those solitary years, Alucard would still himself and settle just like this. A few breaths, a straightened spine, several slow and even breaths. He could feel every inch of his body this way -- the weight of his head on his neck, the soft flex of his ribs at every inhale, the tension in his knees and elbows and hips as he sat cross-legged. In the silence of the royal bedchamber, Alucard could hear his own blood pulsing in his temple. 

He didn’t open his eyes when the bathroom door creaked open, nor when he felt the solid presence of the young king kneel down in front of him. He didn’t flinch when Rhy’s hands came to rest on his. He didn’t stir when Rhy began to speak.

“When your brother agreed to having your family represented during the talks, I hoped it would be you. My brother told me I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help myself. It had been so long.” Rhy’s hands moved up to Alucard’s face. His fingers moved, soothing and light, against his jaw. “I had wondered if you were… if you were dead. After all these years, after all that happened, it seemed horribly plausible. Especially after my injury and Kell’s, after my parents were killed, after watching so many bodies blown to pieces…”

“It could happen to anyone. So why not me?” Alucard supplied in a whisper. He relaxed into Rhy’s hands, blindly moving his over to the younger man’s body and settling on his legs. Still warm, still smooth, still there.

“Exactly,” Rhy admitted. His voice was cracking through the middle. “Exactly, but I couldn’t. I never quit hoping, Luc. And now… now that you’re back, I… I’m not the same as when you left. I don’t sleep well, I forget to eat. I drink too much. I have nightmares. The last thing I, I never wanted you to…”

“To see you the way you just were?” Alucard took a chance and opened his eyes. His heart beat faster to see Rhy’s warm bronze ones looking back at him. Pained and unsettled, but at least he was out of the bathroom. At least he trusted Alucard enough to touch him.

Rhy nods. “Only Kell has ever seen me that way, and only in the aftermath. Once the guards wake him up… I had hoped it wouldn’t come up, tonight. I thought you being here, being with me, that it might help push it all away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t be.”

“Then let me help. If you won’t take an apology, then how can I now push it all away?”

Rhy smiled weakly. “You can’t, Luc. And I wouldn’t dare wake you up in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t be upset if you left for your own rooms.”

“But you would,” Alucard says. “And I know you wouldn’t dare wake your brother with so many prying eyes.” He takes Rhy’s hands in his and squeezes. “Let me stay with you. I’ll be here when you wake up, however you wake up.”

Rhy exhales and relents. “Can’t have the Taskons or the Maktahns wise to my… condition.”

“The Taskons at the very least. I thought that Holland fellow seemed fairly reasonable.”

“He is. They arrived early and he insisted on discussing points with me,” Rhy smirked. “The princess is endearing in her own right, and Kell trusts them but… You never can tell anymore.”

“I suppose you can’t,” Alucard grins, encouraged by Rhy’s own. “For instance, I mistook your brother for friendly at dinner.”

Rhy laughed. “No, not friendly, just in love.”

“Oh? Well, that’s certainly new. Should I hazard a guess or wait until he slips up on his own?”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t slip up. But, I will give until the end of the week to guess who it is.”

“And what do I get for being right?”

“Well, what would you like?”

Alucard brushed his lips over the backs of Rhy’s knuckles, then grinned up at him. “You, underneath me for a week or more.”

“You could have that now, you know,” Rhy said, voice slipping into the charming tone Alucard knew so well. The same voice that pulled him in when they were younger, now deeper and rounded out, fuller in a way created by age and no less enticing for it. 

Alucard swallowed tightly, then brought Rhy close for another kiss. Light, nearly chaste. “Not now, love. Soon, but not tonight.”

Rhy’s brow furrowed, face falling in disappointment. “No?”

“I know you had other plans, love, but we have time for that later, don’t we?” Alucard felt himself shift, walking on eggshells. “If you're amenable, I’d like to talk. It’s been years and I’ve missed your voice. So much time has passed, Rhy, and I have so much to tell you.”

Rhy looked down and away, his expression going strange and flat. Empty, considering. Minutes passed before he looked back to Alucard and nodded.


	32. Peace Talks, Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after a month and a half of nothing, here I am again! The peace talks are about to start and I couldn't resist giving Nasi a moment to explore the palace with Rhy. I wanted those two to have a scene together from the very beginning and it finally happened! 
> 
> A warm welcome to all the new readers here - thank you so much for joining us and welcome to the campfire. A special thanks to everyone who has read, re-read, patiently waited for updates, left comments or kudos or whatever. Thank you so much and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Nasi woke up bright and early the next morning, a habit she hadn’t quite shaken in the years since Astrid’s death. No, she didn’t have to rise early to braid anyone’s hair but her own, but she did like the quiet. Curled up in her blankets, in a room all her own to do whatever she liked. 

This morning, like the few mornings before it, Nasi woke up to the sound of Holland sleeping a short distance away. The man would always fall asleep on his back, but inevitably end up face down in his pillow, arms tucked under the pillow and blankets pooled at his waist. Nasi thought it was awfully silly looking, especially in the early hours when he still snored softly against his arm. 

Sometimes she watched him, giggling at his rumpled sleep shirt and hair, the way all of his seriousness melted away in sleep and returned as soon as he was awake. But this morning, Nasi found she couldn’t sit still that long. She wanted to explore without Holland telling her to be careful or to stay where he could see her. She wanted to see the farther flung portions of the palace, run her fingers along the sparkling mosaics and murals so real they seemed to move. She wanted to have stories to tell Ojka when they got back.

As quietly as she could, she slipped out of bed and snuck to the closet. In front of the big mirror inside, Nasi dressed in her second favorite dress, her new boots, then took her time braiding her hair and setting the jeweled flower pins in the plaits. 

She had wanted a tiara or a crown, something like what she had set in Astrid’s pale locks for years, but Holland had said no, explaining that if he didn’t wear one then no one else should. The flowers were the compromise. Small wildflowers she had collected with Beloc’s help, dipped into resin, laced to silver wires and small gems Ojka had removed from the dead queen’s collection. Nasi loved them, wore them every day unless told otherwise. She wasn’t a princess, but she was the Springtime Flower, and her pins proved it. 

Slipping from the closet, she snuck out the main doors of their rooms, watching her footsteps and waiting for Holland to wake. When he didn’t, she shut the door softly and ran for the grand staircase. She got as far as the tea room before something caught her eye. She snuck closer to the door to get a better look.

It was the king of Arnes, bent over a table covered in papers. He looked tired. He looked like Holland when the harvest reports had come in months earlier, warning of famine in the north. Unhappy, frustrated, in need of a good nap.

“Nasi?”

Caught, the little girl pulled back from the door and tried to hide against the wall. She could slide away, just like she used to. But his footsteps were suddenly very close and she couldn’t.

“I thought that was you,” the man said in perfect Maktahn, smiling down at her. “What are you doing up so early, Nasi?”

“Exploring,” she answered quietly. She braced, expecting him to send her back to her room.

“Exploring, really?” He crouched down to her height. He looked even more exhausted now that he was closer -- his smile not as bright, his dark curls askew, a spot forming where the heel of his palm pressed too hard into his cheek. He wasn’t dressed in his court uniform, but simpler shirtsleeves and dark trousers. But his eyes were still the bright, sparkling bronze they had been on the first day. 

Nasi nodded. “Yes. Holland’s still asleep and I wanted to explore.”

“Kell and I used to do that when we were younger,” the king smiled. “It’s a big palace. Are you sure you want to go alone? I could show you all the best places.”

“You don’t have to mind me,  _ mas hazra _ ,” Nasi replied earnestly, pleased with her pronunciation. She was doing her best to learn, but it was taking a lot longer than she was happy with. “I’m old enough. You have work to do.” 

She pointed past him to the table, still covered with work. The king turned to look over his shoulder. Disappointment flickered across his face, jostling the exhaustion that was already there. He let out a slow breath then turned back to Nasi.

“And what if I didn’t want to do work?” He asked, arching an eyebrow. “None of it is pressing, and the start of the talks today will push it all aside. What then, princess?”

“Then…” Nasi thought for a moment, pursing her lips and squinting at the king. Then she leaned in, just like she did with Ojka, and grinned. “Then show me!”

Rhy returned the smile, then pulled himself back up to full height and held out a hand for her to hold. She took it, content to let the man lead the way. 

He pointed out the mosaics on the ceiling, hidden colored glass windows overlooking winter gardens, and showed her a secret staircase that led under the palace where the red river waters created a secret pool before continuing to the sea. He showed her his brother’s secret library, a shortcut to the kitchens and who to ask for if she was hungry, all the while two guards standing a few meters back. 

Nasi was very aware of them, but the king hardly acknowledged their presence. They had guards in White London, plenty of them, but Holland had severely drawn down their numbers and did not have personal keepers. Nasi would have been unnerved if they had guards assigned to them here. She supposed the older man was simply used to them, having grown up around them.

“Here, just this way,” he said quietly, steering her into a small alcove. “You said you liked flowers, didn’t you?”

“Flowers?” Nasi gasped tilting her head back to look up at him. 

“Yes. See that brass coin?” The king said, pointing. “Push it, as hard as you can.”

Nasi did, too excited for words. She jumped back against his legs, squeaking with delight as the wall in front of her shifted and flung backwards. Nasi stared, awestruck, until the king nudged her forward. 

She found herself in the middle of a small room, exactly circular and filled with flowers. An ornate fountain bubbled in the middle of the room, the water snaking through small channels to every end of the garden. Nasi hopped over each one, marvelling at the miniature river delta spreading out under her feet. Butterflies swooped overhead, landing on branches and vines the reached up toward a high glass ceiling. 

Nasi hoped once more, turning back to the king with a bright smile. “It’s warm!”

“It’s meant to be,” the king explained. He sat down on a small bench carved into the wall, hands clasped in his lap as he watched her. “It’s made so the flowers can grow all year round.”

“Why?” Nasi asked, trailing her fingers through the water. Also warm, also crystal clear. She wondered if Holland would let her build something just like this at home.

“Because my mother loved them,” he answered. He suddenly looked tired, sad, perhaps a little wistful. “My father had this built for her when they were married. By some miracle, it wasn’t damaged in the war, and I’d like to think that means something.”

Nasi spun and ran to a rose bush sporting full yellow blooms. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, I do. I do very much…” The king’s voice trailed off. When Nasi looked again, he was staring up at the ceiling, eyes following the spinning path of a bright blue butterfly. Something about him kept her quiet, waiting for whatever he might say next. Eventually, he sighed and closed his eyes. “I come here when I need a moment’s peace, princess. Time to remember there are things worth doing all this work for, that the world can be this beautiful again if I do… Sometimes I think she’s here with me.”

“Your mother?”

The king nodded.

Nasi ran her finger around the velvety edge of a blossom. “Do you miss her?”

“Every day.”

“Your father too?”

“Mhmm. Do you miss yours?”

“No,” Nasi shrugged. She continued wandering around the room. She paused when she felt the king’s gold eyes on her. She shrugged again. “I don’t remember them. Holland said he would help me find them again, if I wanted, but I don’t think I want to.”

The king sat up, studying her closely. “Why not?”

“It seems like a lot of work and…” Nasi bounced on her toes, worrying the sleeve of her dress. “I like the people I have. I have Holland and Ojka and Alma and Beloc. I don’t really…  _ need _ anyone else, I think.”

“Does Holland know that?”

Nasi shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m going to tell him when we’re back home.”

“That could take a long time you know.”

“I’m not in a rush.” Nasi did one last turn of the room. He watches her the whole way. She can’t place the expression -- serious but affectionate, that far off sort of look that Holland got when he was remembering life under the Danes, and the ever present exhaustion. She came to a stop in front of his shoes. “What’re you thinking about?”

“My brother,” he answers simply. “You’re very much like him, do you know that?”

“I am?” That news thrilled Nasi. Out of all the people in the palace, she had decided she liked the prince the best. He knew all the best treats at tea and wasn’t nearly as scary as the Taskons. Not to mention that he and Holland were close, so Nasi could ask for just about anything.

The king nodded. “Yes, but I wouldn’t be too excited. He never knew his parents either, ended up in this palace as a young child. He was always very serious, very careful with other people.. just like you seem to be.”

Nasi only stared at him.

“My parents… they didn’t care for him the way Holland cares for you. I wish they had been, or Kell might have turned out a little more fun than he actually is.” The king winked, smirking slightly. “You won’t tell him I said that, I hope.”

Nasi made a show of pursing her lips and pretending to lock them shut.

The king laughed. “Very good. I knew I could trust you.”

“Of course, you can trust me,” Nasi beamed, curtseying properly. She giggled lightly, then a question popped into her brain. “I mean that. Ojka says I’m very trustworthy and she liked you a lot. Holland tells me things when he thinks I’m asleep or not listening to him totally.”

“Nasi?”

“Sorry. I should get to the… I meant that I’m a good listener and you don’t seem like you like anybody but Kell so…” Nasi loses her place again. 

The king nods and leans forward onto his knees. “See, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a very clever little spy. But I don’t suppose you are, so I might take your offer, princess.”

“You will?”

“Would you like to know the real reason I brought you here?”

Nasi nodded.

“I brought you here because I’m worried for today,” the king says in a quiet voice. “Once I walk into that room with everyone else, I no longer have control and I’m worried I’ll do the wrong thing. You understand?”

“Why did you bring  _ me _ though?” Nasi asked. “You could have come here by yourself.”

“You gave me a reason to leave my work. I wake up early every morning to make sure every single thing is taken care of before the rest of the day begins,” He explains gently. “It’s what my father did, it’s what I’m supposed to do, but I’m not sure. But those are things I can control, problems that rely on me to be fixed. These talks…” He pauses for a breath, choosing his next words carefully. “I need my parents’ strength today, more than ever, and I thought seeing you happy would help me feel prepared.”

Nasi stepped closer, resting one of her hands on his. “Holland said he brought me because he needed me to be strong. That Ojka and Beloc could keep Makt strong without him, but that he needed  _ me _ here… Do you feel ready though?”

“I can’t say I do, but I suppose no one can be unless they’ve stacked the deck in their favor.” The king looked down at where her small palm rested and exhaled. “Nasi, I… People rely on me the way they rely on Holland, you understand? I’m their king, I’m meant to be someone they see as strong. They called my father the Steel Prince when he was younger, and I wished -- still wish -- I could be like him.”

“You’re trying to, though. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, trying my hardest. But I… I fear I’m a weak imitation of a better leader, a better man. When they look at me, they should see their king.” He took a deep breath. “And I try to be, but all I see in the mirror is a young man playing pretend to cover up the terrified little boy he really is.”

Nasi moved her hand to his shoulder. She shakes him until he looks back up at her. “Why did you tell me that?”

The king sighs. “Because confiding in a child is easier than confiding in my own brother.”

“Why?”

“He knows what I’ve been through. What I put both of us through. You don’t, you were too young to know.”

“I know what Holland went through. Ojka too, and Alma... But, I don’t see you as scared,  _ mas hazra _ .”

He blinks at her. “No?”

Nas shakes her head. “I’m always scared, I know what scared looks like. You… You don’t look scared. You look like you need more sleep and more help. I don’t like asking for help either.”

“I do need more sleep, if only my mind would let me.”

“Do you have nightmares too?”

“What do you have to have nightmares of, princess?” 

Nasi pointed to the scar on her own cheek. “This… The queen gave me this, before Holland. I know you met her a long time ago. I didn’t like showing it, but I do now. Because it makes me feel strong.”

The king’s brow furrowed. “Why is that?”

Nasi shrugged. “Ojka told me that having a scar means I lived and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of that. Showing it to other people shows that I’ve already won, because I’m still here.” 

Nasi stood very still as the young King of Arnes reached a hand out to touch her cheek. He ran the pads of his fingers softly down the line of her scar, then pulled them away to rest against his chest. Right over where his heart should be. A few long moments later, the spell seems to break and the king nods, starting to smile again. "Your Ojka is a very wise person, Nasi. You'll have to thank her for me when you see her again."


	33. Peace Talks, Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in as many weeks? It's like magic or something!
> 
> Think of this as Part 2 of the last chapter - later that morning with Kell and Rhy, before everything finally starts, and I finally get to introduce my next player: Cora Taskon.
> 
> Enjoy!

“You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Rhy pressed the porcelain coffee cup to his lower lip, avoiding Kell’s eyes. “No.”

“Rhy-.”

“It wasn’t drink, Kell. Just memories.”

“Memories of what, exactly?”

Rhy took a long drink from his cup. He closed his eyes and savored the hot drink, it’s sweetness and the small perk it gave to his blood. He felt the weight of Kell’s piercing blue gaze without seeing it; felt it prickle the skin of his face, raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He took another drink, exhaling warmth as he returned the cup to it’s saucer. Opening his eyes, Rhy reached for more food and avoided Kell’s eyes. He’d likely be avoiding his brother in one way or another all day.

“Being shot,” he answered tightly.

“Oh.” Kell sounded sufficiently admonished, but Rhy didn’t for a second believe he was finished prodding. “What, um… what part?”

Rhy let his gaze slide over to Kell’s. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Kell arched an eyebrow. He was dressed in the formal red, like Rhy had asked. Rhy ripped off a small piece of bread and chewed it slowly, noting how badly the deep crimson clashed with his brother’s coloring. Why had he insisted Kell wear it? Rhy himself was wearing hsi standard white. “Rhy, are you--?”

“I heard you,” Rhy snapped quietly. “It’s not exactly something to be discussed within earshot of guests, Kell.”

“Yes because Sol-in-Ar can hear us from the other end of the table,” Kell murmured bitterly. He peeled an orange and split the fruit into quarters. “He’s older than father would have been, but he certainly has ears like a hawk--.”

“Will you  _ stop _ ?”

“Will you?” 

“ _ Me? _ ”

Kell glared at him. “Yes,  _ you _ . You look like a strong breeze could knock you over, nearly sick, but you and I are going to pretend you don’t and that no one else will notice. For the sake of  _ what _ ?”

“Diplomacy.”

“Horseshit. It’s about your pride. You know it as well as I do.”

“Well one of us needs to keep up appearances for however long this lasts,” Rhy hisses under his breath. “And if you insist on being so obvious coming and going from the Maktahn czar’s bedchambers, then it has to be me.”

“You’re the one insisting we keep it quiet.”

“And you’re the one failing spectacularly at it.”

“Then what was your dream about?”

Rhy glared back. He had half a mind to pin Kell’s sleeve to the dining table with the point of his knife. He reached for his coffee again, gripping the cup tightly. “Same as always with one notable difference.”

“And what was that?” Kell pressed.

“You died,” Rhy said stiffly, then turned away. “I went over the top against orders. I was shot, you came after me, you were shot next. Just as it happened. But  _ you _ died. Please don’t ask anything more.” Rhy tore off more bread, stuffing enough into his mouth that he couldn’t answer if Kell had the nerve to ask.

“Oh…” Kell’s voice trailed off. He picked up his coffee and sat back in his chair, cradling the cup in his lap. He stared out the large windows, face serious but unreadable. Rhy went back to his food, but would look up every so often to his brother. As the minutes pass, his face goes tight and drawn, shadowed in a way it shouldn’t be so early in the morning.

“Kell?”

“Are you ever going to talk to me?” Kell said quietly, bringing his coffee cup to his lips. He continues to stare out the window, even as more guests trickle into the dining room. He won’t look at Rhy, something that burrows and squirms under Rhy’s skin. “About any of it?”

“You were there with me,” Rhy swallowed. “I didn’t think we needed to. I thought it would be understood without… without going into detail.”

“Even the things I wasn’t here for?” Kell asks archly.

Rhy stares at him. “What were you not here for, Kell?”

Kell, finally, stares back. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“The infection in your arm, our parents’ deaths, the shelling attack, your coronation. Just to name a few,” Kell scoffeed, keeping his voice low enough that Rhy couldn’t snap at him. “There was quite a lot that I wasn’t here for, Rhy. Whatever it is, whatever keeps you awake at night--.”

“I’m not going to tell you, Kell,” Rhy said quickly. “Father said it never did anyone well to dwell on the past.”

“ _ Sanct _ .”

“What?”

“Telling  _ me _ isn’t dwelling on anything, Rhy. It’s cleaning out a wound, one that I would say has been festering for years. What you’re doing is dwelling on it.”

Rhy rolled his eyes. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“Oh is it?”

“Yes. I’m sure the Ruby Fields is missing your patronage these last few months.” Rhy scoffed. “I suppose you think you’re an expert now that you’ve quit drowning in black sallies?”

“No,” Kell sniffed, pushing away from the table and standing. “But I know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Kell leaned in close, his face as unreadable as ever. He dropped his voice low enough that only Rhy could hear. “That our father is dead and imitating him will ruin you.”

Rhy did his best to suppress a glare. “You will never understand  _ the weight _ I have to carry that they left behind.”

“I never will and I don’t envy you,” Kell answers. “But you are my brother before you are king, and I have always been responsible for you.”

“ _ Always _ ?” Rhy arched an eyebrow, pushing his own chair back.

“Yes, always. Mother saw to it that I would always be your keeper, Rhy,” Kell sighed. “I have always seen to it that I did not lose you, and I am not about to fail now. You trust me, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know how not to.”

“Then trust me now. You trust me with so much, why not this?”

Rhy sighed and stood, tilting his chin up the fractional amount to look Kell in the eyes. “Because it is infinitely easier to confide in my weakness to my bathroom mirror and a nine year old child than to my brother.”

“A nine…” Kell blinked. “Nasi?”

Rhy leaned away, squaring his shoulders. “I won’t repeat myself.”

“Rhy-.”

“Not now,” Rhy shakes his head. “Please, not now. I have a few things to finish before proceedings start this morning, and I’d like not to be desturbed until then.” 

Without another word, Rhy turned and walked out of the dining room. He jovially greeted incoming guests as he did, leaving his brother in his wake. Turning the corner into the corridor, Rhy nearly runs right into another guest.

“Good morning,  _ mas hazra _ ,” Cora Taskon trilled. The princess of Vesk beamed, far too cheerful for the occasion Rhy thought, a hand lifting the edge of her emerald green dress. 

“Good morning, princess,” Rhy answered without missing a beat. Exhaustion dropped over him all at once. Just as he was making his escape from conversation, he all but throws himself into another one. “I hope you had a restful night.”

“Without question. You spoil my brother and I with your hospitality. We couldn’t be happier,” Cora looked him up and down, preening about something. Rhy wouldn’t dare guess at what, but the pit in his stomach knew. “You aren’t leaving already, are you?”

“I’m afraid so. Arnesian policy waits for no one, not even the king,” Rhy tried a smile.

“That’s a shame. I was hoping to discuss some finer points with you before we began.”

“Perhaps tonight, after dinner?”

Cora smirked. “As long as my brother is present, I’m sure we can avoid a scandal.”

“Princess, you misunderstand--.”

“Only teasing, Rhy,” Cora waved him off. “I’m only teasing. We used to be good friends, remember? You used to just call me Cora, remember?”

Rhy nodded. They had been, all through childhood and their teenage years. Arnes and Vesk had been true allies for decades, until 1914. The facade had crumbled when Cora’s eldest brother and heir to the Veskan throne had been killed. Perhaps he was exhausted, perhaps more than a little paranoid from years of double-crossing and backhanded maneuvers, but Rhy’s hackles were raised. Cora’s beguiling smile could be that of an old friend, or that of the adder beneath the rose.

He let his gaze flit about the hallway, looking for a diversion. A distraction. An escape. And he soon found one in Holland Vosijk.

“Cora,” Rhy began, finding a second wind to be his usual pleasant self. Built on excitement from finally seeing a way out without injury. “Have you met our Maktahn visitors?”

As he turned the young woman, sweeping an arm towards the older man and his adopted daughter, Rhy watched Cora’s expression shift and warm. Interest, he assumed. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

“Let me introduce you then.” Rhy cleared his throat and lifted a hand. “Holland, do you have a moment?”

“Good morning,” Holland said, trailing behind Nasi as she skipped up to Rhy. “What can I do for you, Rhy?”

“Just an introduction I wasn’t able to fully make last night. Holland, this is Cora Taskon, crown princess of Vesk. I believe you met her brother at dinner last night,” Rhy began with a wide grin, then rested a hand on Cora’s arm. “Cora, this is Holland Vosijk, the new czar of Makt, and his daughter, Nasi.”

Nasi grinned and sunk into a low curtsey. Rhy couldn’t help smiling -- she had spent some time that morning rehearsing it, looking for his approval. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her she wouldn’t be joining them. 

Holland extended a hand and bent to kiss the back of her hand. When he straightened, his green eyes skipped over to Rhy, then back to Cora -- curiosity and confusion mixed, there and gone in an instant. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, princess.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” A blush invaded Cora’s cheeks and Rhy said a silent prayer that Kell wouldn’t have his head for this. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to put in order before the morning is through. Please, enjoy breakfast, and I will see you all shortly.” Rhy stepped away from the pair -- Nasi had gotten a head start into the dining room, looking for Kell he guessed -- and quickly walked away. Not towards the sunroom where he kept his papers, but to his bedroom where Alucard lay still sleeping. And Rhy, fading fast, had not felt relief like he had when he rolled over to see Alucard next to him that morning. He had not slept for more than minutes, maybe an hour at most, but waking up to someone was better than no one. 

Alucard was standing at the mirror, fully dressed, when Rhy slipped in. He only turned when Rhy dropped onto the bed. “Aren’t you meant to be rubbing elbows?”

“I tried, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“No sleep and Kell got the better of me.” Rhy dropped an arm over his eyes and sighed. “I need to pretend I’m rested, Luc, I--.”

“I understand,” Luc mused, a smile pulling at his features. He walked over, standing at the bedside long enough to pull a blanket over Rhy’s chest. “Shall I wake you when you’re needed?”

“Yes, please.”

“And keep your brother in his chair?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Luc chuckled. “Not at all. Rest, love. I’ll be back soon enough.”


	34. Peace Talks, Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a month and we're finally back! And with a lot of perspectives!
> 
> This chapter became a strange amalgamation of multiple perspectives and I hope the differentiations between, Holland, Alucard, Kell, and Nasi's separate sections are clear. They have been marked, but still. This is an overview of the first day of the peace talks, featuring Holland's nerves, Nasi making a new friend, a furious Alucard, and much more.
> 
> Enjoy!

An old ache was settling across Holland’s back by the time he sat down. A bone-deep, smarting pain shooting up the old lines of whips scars. He hadn’t felt them this sharply in months and blamed the Arnesian weather for it. 

Nasi had been cross with him when he announced she would not be attending the hours-long meetings with him. She would be bored stiff and restless, he argued gently. Rhy had arranged a companion for her -- a slightly older girl from an aristocratic family -- and she would be much happier exploring the palace grounds. The little girl had put up a decent fight, the stubborn spitfire she was slowly becoming on full display, but it had evaporated the moment Holland winced buttoning his shirt.

_ Are you hurt? _ She had asked quietly, concern creasing her brow.

Holland had shook his head, biting his tongue to still his face as he finished dressing.  _ Old wounds sometimes revive themselves, Nasi. I’ll be alright, I promise. I must have slept on it wrong. _

_ You didn’t sleep on it wrong. _ Nasi had protested, arms crossed tightly.  _ You always roll off of your back when you sleep _ .

Holland had only stared at her, bewildered. He often forgot how much Nasi saw and remembered, how sharp her observations had become since Ojka had discovered her. He had wondered throughout breakfast all the things she had seen throughout the years -- the hesitation in his gait the mornings after Athos called him to his bedroom; the uneven line of Ojka’s red hair the evening after Astrid had been done away with; the sweat dampening his shirt when she unknowingly woke him from nightmares because of her own. 

Holland hadn’t brought Nasi for her keen, quick eye, but he had begun thinking it could only help him. Even as he left her in the capable hands of Anissa Emery, part of Holland wanted to turn back and take Nasi with him.

“Behave yourself,  _ sa litli _ . You’ll tell me everything you discover, yes?”

“I’ll tell you all the good things we find… Good luck,  _ papa _ .” Nasi looked up at him, her hazel green eyes serious. Holland turned away from her and the Emery girl, struck by the gut feeling that Nasi had meant it.

He wondered if she knew she had said it in her sleep the night before.

Another large room in the palace had been converted into the center of negotiations. Tables were lined positioned end to end into the large outline of a square and draped with white linens. Intricately carved high back chairs were positioned on every side, name cards set to indicate who would sit at each and with which nation they were allied. 

Holland didn’t need direction to his spot -- Rhy had told him days earlier that he would have Holland seated near him. The young king had insisted it was meant to present a unified front against Vesk, but Holland suspected it was also a level of security. Rhy Maresh put up a decent front, casting an image of warmly receptive authority, but it was exactly that -- a front. The young man never seemed entirely sure of himself, had unconsciously leaned on Holland or Kell in certain conversations. Something had driven a wedge in his confidence and he seemed to believe Holland Vosijk would cure him of it.

A quick inventory of the cards showed how sparsely equipped Makt was by comparison. Arnes had eight delegates, Faro had brought six. Vesk was sporting a whopping eleven members. Holland was Makt’s only representative. 

He would be deeply in denial if he said it didn’t make him nervous.

Holland felt his spirits raise the moment he saw Kell sitting in the chair to the right of his. He smiled, slowly settling himself down. “Good morning, blue-eyes.”

“Bold,” Kell mused with a tender smile. He finished writing something, then turns towards Holland. “We said good morning at breakfast.”

“We did, but it still fits the time,” Holland said.

“It does, yes… But I suspect you just wanted to use ‘blue-eyes’ more than anything else.”

“I want to use it every time. I’m not accustomed to tiptoeing around others.”

“I know you aren’t, even if you are good at keeping things to yourself,” Kell replied quietly. He turned in his chair so his knee just touched Holland’s. “One day you’ll be able to. I’ll make sure of it personally.”

Holland let his nerves settle. For only a moment, true. Holland never liked to let his guard down for too long. Doing so let him remember that, for the first time, a few things in his life were secure, constant. Nasi, Ojka Dimove, Beloc Maatev, and Kell Maresh. 

He leaned forward, lowering his voice further. “Will I see you personally in my rooms tonight?”

“I was actually thinking mine,” Kell answered in kind. “I’ll… be gentler,  _ moy czar _ .”

“I could use a softer touch today,  _ mas vares _ .” 

Holland turned to the center of the room, chuckling. More delegates were filing in and it wouldn’t help the proceedings for their closeness to be discovered. The pair chatted idly as the chairs filled in around them and more voices rose to join their’s. Holland was still on edge, was still exceedingly uncertain he would be able to win the few things he came her for. But, should things go sour for him there, Holland did have something to come back to. 

Alma, Beloc, the rebels now turned Chief Counsel.

London, the Silver Wood, the Sijlt.

Ojka, Nasi, and perhaps the teasing redhead.

For the first time in his life, Holland Vosijk could see the uncertainty and still know that all was not lost. Not by a long shot. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Let me remind you, Cora, because you seem to have neglected. These are  _ my citizens _ we are talking about.”

“I understand that, Rhy, but they are within  _ my _ country’s borders-.”

“And have been for going on three years. That’s unacceptable. We negotiated their release from your prisons back then. Tell me why we cannot negotiate assistance to transport them home.”

“You’ll find the barrier is your current intransigence on several other matters.”

Alucard dug a fingernail into the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger. He had already ground his back teeth together until his jaw ached, bitten a gash in his cheek, and was roughly five minutes from pulling his own hair out strand by strand.

He wasn’t the only one. The czar of Makt, Holland Vosijk, was sitting very stiffly in his chair, back ramrod straight, face subtly marked by pain. Alucard didn’t know enough about the man to understand why. Kell and Col Taskon had given in to fidgeting nearly an hour ago. Col’s knee bobbed underneath the table as he bounced his leg, shaking the table cloth. Kell alternated between picking at his hangnails and drumming his fingers on the table, his gaze set on a fixed point in the center of the floor. Plenty of others had retreated into their own heads, biding time until someone called for a break. 

Only Cora Taskon and Rhy were anywhere close to alert. The two had been going at it over the point of prisoners of war -- whether they should be freed, allowed to stay in Vesk, allowed to return to Arnes, and how much interference Vesk is able to get away with -- and Faro was taking Vesk’s side.

Cora was dodging Rhy’s points at every opportunity.

Rhy was quickly becoming belligerent.

They should have called a recess two hours ago.

Alucard slouched down against the smooth carvings of his chair back. He had promised himself he would hold his tongue. Rhy had insisted he should speak his mind whenever, but Alucard knew his self-control and temper. He knew he was reaching the outer limits of his resistance. It was taking every ounce he had left to keep him in his chair, to keep him from jumping up and storming out of the room while informing the Taskon siblings just how wrong they were.

The young woman, blonde and fresh and sure of herself, had no idea what venom she had incurred. 

“Cora, I will not concede the point on chemical weapons. Furthermore, that should have no bearing on whether or not my citizens are allowed to come home--.”

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”

“Because… Because you should be less concerned about chemical weapons when confronted by the fact that there are currently thousands of Arnesian trapped within your borders, draining your resources and without the ability to contribute to your economy. If you want to play with those cards, Cora, I will play with those cards.”

“I could put them to work making weapons if you would let that go.”

“Not on your life.”

Alucard had known Cora, however distantly, when she was much younger. He doubted she remembered him at all; he himself could not recall much about her. That did not keep Alucard from having vicious daydreams about leaving her for a week in one of her prison camps.

Hell, leaving the young woman for an hour would cure her of her misplaced notions.

Every time she spoke of the “forgiving conditions” and “moderate hand of guards”, Alucard felt the tang of bile in his throat. He swallowed it back with a grimace -- bile, sharp words, and all. 

What he wouldn’t love to tell her what her “moderately-tempered” guards had done to him and his cellmates; how even keeled they had been when they had beaten him to a bloody pulp and dragged him into solitary confinement. What he wouldn’t have given for Rhy to allow him even a few minutes to address the room on what being granted his freedom had looked like. He had more than enough stories to fill the remaining hours in the day, to fill the next few days. Rhy would never allow it. He would probably insist it would grind the proceedings to a sure halt, but Alucard couldn’t see how the exact same was playing out before him.

“I suppose I could consider granting your navy permission to dock.”

“Yes, you could, Cora. Would you?”

“Perhaps…”

“Is it in exchange for conceding to the weapons point?”

“You’re catching on,  _ mas vares _ .”

“And you’re showing your whole hand, princess.”

The longer he sat here, surrounded by stubbornness and futile bickering, the more Alucard vibrated with anger. He had sat in a filthy, tumble-down prison for years while the powers that be did this? This was how their freedom was won? 

This was all ego, all pride. 

Alucard was simmering in his own bottled fury.

He knew Rhy would be the one to accidentally uncork it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Who taught you to braid like this, Nasi?” Anissa Emery asked. The teenager stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall, all but wholly enchanted by the vining twists Nasi had shaped her dark brown hair into. 

Nasi leaned over the older girl’s shoulder and grinned. “Queen Astrid. I did her braids every morning. Not like this, though. She didn’t like anything so… pretty.”

Anissa smiled at her. “You’re very talented. I hope you spare some of it for yourself.”

“I do! See?” Nasi flits around to stand in front of Anissa’s chair. She wriggles her shoulders, feeling her own hair swing lightly. “I want to do a different one every day that we’re here.”

“That could be so many, Nasi. Do you know that many styles?”

“Yes, and I can always make up more.”

“And your little pins,” Anissa continued, tapping a finger against one of the jeweled flowers Nasi had tucked into her blonde strands. “Where did you get them?”

“Holland gave them to me as a gift, for the trip. Instead of a crown or something.” Nasi plucked one out and turned around. She held it out on the flat of her palm. “They’re real wildflowers and each one is different. They came from the palace gardens. The jewels came from one of Astrid’s necklaces. Holland had lots of their jewels broken up when he became king.”

Anissa picked up the small pin, holding it up to her face as she turned it slowly. Light sparkled off of the miniscule diamonds set into the center of the flower’s cup. After a few moments, she handed it back to Nasi. “Your father has a very particular way of doing things, doesn’t he?”

“He does?” Nasi asked, tucking the pin back into her braid. 

“It seems so,” Anissa shrugs. “Forgive me, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enters into anything without a very good reason.”

Nasi nodded. “You’re right. He always has a plan, but keeps it quiet. He’s always been that way.”

Nasi dropped to the floor, crossing her legs under her dress. Holland knew Ojka and Beloc for a reason. Holland had made a deal with the White Rebels and Alma for a reason. Ojka had brought Nasi to him and he had made her  _ jarná kvetina _ for a reason. He had designed his court uniforms, bricked up walls in the castle, and replanted the garden for a reason. He had brought Nasi to Arnes with him for a reason. He had probably given her the offer in the train car for a reason.

Holland never did anything without one.

Nasi wondered what the last one could have been.

A finger tapped the center of her forehead and she looked up into Anissa Emery’s deep blue eyes. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

“Just…” Nasi hesitated for a moment, hearing doors opening and exhausted footsteps in the hall. She turned her head to see Holland step out, looking exhausted, with Prince Kell at his side. She turned back to Anissa and grinned. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

She jumped up to her feet and wandered through the small crowd of delegates towards the man. She pushed the thought to the back of her head. She could worry about what everything meant later. She and Anissa had found several interesting things she needed to tell Holland about.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “You said you would be  _ gentle _ , blue-eyes.”

“I can be gentle or I can take the pain away. Your choice,  _ major _ ,” Kell replied. He sat on the edge of his bed, pushing his thumbs into the line of Holland’s shoulders. Once Rhy had called an end to the day’s talks, the man had confessed to being in pain for hours. Kell had offered him relief, had invited him back to his room. It was like he had planned earlier that day, except for the notable difference that the noises coming from the dark-haired man were in pain, not pleasure.

“Just… be quick then,” Holland said through gritted teeth.

“I will. Hold still and breathe.”

Kell worked through the muscles of his shoulders, neck, and biceps, then moved down the line of his spine and the planes of his back. The pain seemed to grow as his hands moved down, judging from the way Holland gasped and hid his face. When it seemed to become too much, Kell would pull his fingers away and run the flat of his palm over the skin. It was meant to be soothing, calming, but Kell felt his mind wander.

He remembered, years earlier, feeling dense scabs under his hands as he ran them over the man’s back. He remembered understanding not to ask, just as Holland had not asked for the details of his own broken collar. Back then, he had assumed they were war wounds, would heal and fade with time. Back then, he hadn’t known who Holland was, how he was linked with the Danes and would manufacture their downfall.

Kell had not wondered then. 

He wondered now.

“What did they do to you?” he asked quietly, the words tumbling from his lips without much thought. He had said them to himself, had not meant to receive an answer, but Holland heard him. Of course, Holland heard him.

“Many things. All worse than the war,” was his strained, brittle reply.

Kell hesitated, hand still skimming over the pink, raised scars. “What were these?”

“Astrid and her favorite whip…” Holland breathes. “Those are not the only ones. There are seven years’ worth.”

“Seven years?”

“Yes, and you’ve felt all of them. Whether you knew it or not.” Holland shifts on the bed, twisting his fingers in the pillowcase. “Keep going, would you? It’s starting to ease.”

Kell nodded and began again. The door to his rooms was locked, but Kell still checked over his shoulder before changing position. He pushed himself up, dropping a leg over Holland’s hips and leaning his whole weight forward into the press. The position gave him leverage, could let him pretend they were doing something more scandalous than this. The sharp groan Holland let out, however, could not be mistaken as debauched.

“Stop, stop. Please.”

“No, of course.” Kell exhaled, defeated. He settled his weight on Holland’s hips, rested a hand flat on Holland’s back. He remembered the bloody jokes the Danes had told, how they sounded too specific to be a simple ghoulish fancy. Feeling the welts lacing Holland’s skin, Kell couldn’t help but twist himself into knots wondering how many of those had been about the man who was now king.

“Kell… I can feel you thinking,” Holland breathed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kell murmured, watching his fingers. “Nothing of consequence anyway…”

“I doubt that, love.” Holland turned his head on the pillow enough to glance at Kell. His green eyes are bleary and exhausted. Damp cheeks give away the extent of the pain. “What are you thinking about?”

Kell shook his head, still fixated on the marks.

“Ah… Don’t think too deeply on it--.”

“Seven years, Holland,” Kell whispered. “They did this for seven years?”

“Yes, and more. It was meant to make me theirs,” Holland breathed. “I was always meant to stay under them, Kell. This is only permanent evidence that I have outlived them and their will.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should not be.”

“And yet…” Kell lets his voice trail off, lightly moving his hand over the skin again. All of a sudden, he finds himself bending forward, leaning over the king on hands and knees. It was a compulsion, a spontaneous push to action. He bent and pressed a kiss to each shoulder, then the nape of Holland’s neck, nose brushing against the soft black hair.

“Kell?”

“I’m ruining it for them further,” Kell whispered. He kisses the curve of Holland’s jaw, then his shoulders again. He moves across the man’s shoulder blades, the dip of his spine, the barely-there ripple of ribs under the skin. “These aren’t theirs anymore.”

“No?”

“No, they’re mine.” Kell moves slowly down the man’s back, finishing at his hips. Holland had gone still underneath him, waiting for what Kell would do next. Kell pushes himself back up, sliding down on the bed to look Holland in the eyes. He kisses him, a fleeting second before pulling away. “You’re mine, Holland, if you’d like to be.”

Holland blinks. For a moment, he seems genuinely stunned. “Why?”

Kell runs fingers through Holland’s hair, watching the man’s eyes flutter and close for a moment. “Because… we may have only met a few times, we don’t know each other well, but I might… Despite all that, I might love you.”

“You might, eh?” Holland smiles softly, eyes opening. “I might make you mine then, blue-eyes.”

“I think it’s only fair, major.”


	35. Peace Talks, Arnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, everybody! It's been quite a long time since I've updated this story and I could blame quite a few things on that -- from work to stress to a new pup to train up. Regardless, I hope you all are staying safe and healthy. Please enjoy this latest chapter and I hope to get the next one up sooner than this one :)
> 
> orchid

“I expected better…” Cora Taskon murmured to herself, drawing a thin ink line across the page in front of her. She tapped the tip of her pen against the paper, frowning at the web she had spent the night solving out. “Your secretive nature has abandoned you, Kell.”

Her older brother rolled over in his sleep, his snores carrying across the room to her ears. 

Cora was beginning to wish her mother had chosen a different sibling to accompany her. Col was a decent enough companion, she supposed, but a blunt instrument at best. He didn’t have her ability to see the thin threads between things. Didn’t have her ability to see the subtleties in the Arnesians’ hospitality, in the Faroans’ gestures. 

Hok had been the best at it and had thankfully taken an interest in showing a younger Cora how to do the same. He would have been the best suited of all the Taskon heirs for these proceedings. He would have happily waltzed the Mareshes into a corner without breaking a sweat.

But Hok was dead.

If he wasn’t, none of them would be here.

So Cora was left to negotiate almost five years of grievances alone. Was left to negotiate Vesk’s newfound military prowess being stripped away from them. All because Rhy Maresh was suddenly squeamish at the idea of Osaron. As if his father and advisors had not purchased and utilized the very same weapons he was now trying to outlaw. Cora had been given express orders to prevent that very outcome. If Osaron’s ban had not been a point in the agreement, Vesk would have signed the new peace treaty in absentia. But no, Rhy Maresh had to have his way. And Cora was saddled with dead weight. 

Snoring dead weight.

Cora cast a glance over her shoulder at her brother’s bed, her snarl of annoyance unseen in the midnight dark. She gripped her pen harder and turned back to her page. She had a plan to work out, snarls to tease out, weaknesses to find. 

Rhy and Kell Maresh were lost causes -- there was no negotiating them away from their convictions. Cora knew that to be true from years of knowing them, years of growing up around one another. The navy captain who had joined the Arnesian contingency was an unknown quantity, but he had been circling the young king close enough for Cora to discard him as a possibility. He was quiet and tense, noticeably on edge throughout the prior day’s proceedings. She noted that for later, wondering if it was an opening she could slip a knife’s edge into.

Faro had rolled over as soon as the Taskons had arrived. So quickly, Cora knew they had been planning on it in the weeks leading up. They had come to their conclusion quickly and held up a good front until that first dinner. It was unexpected, but unsurprising. Faro was smaller than the other three nations, had far more to lose if their armies could not have access to every option available. New technology would make them stronger; the Arnesians were threatening them with perpetual weakness. Lord Sol-in-Ar, however, was not nearly as confrontational as she was. He would not go for the jugular -- not when he needed to, not when it was warranted, not ever. So, despite his position, Cora couldn’t count on him.

She chewed the nail of her little finger, staring at the growing web in front of her. Her eyes fell on the newest name.

The Maktahn czar, Holland Vosijk. He was interesting. Also an unknown quantity, but fresher faced. He couldn’t have been in power for very long. The previous talks had not been all that long ago, and Cora had found herself locked in conversation with the previous rulers for most of those days. She had come to know them well, and this man was not one of them. He was older than the twins had been, more stern and serious in demeanor. He had a young child with him.

A new administration, tentative and unstable. A young daughter to protect, to lay the groundwork for her rule later. After years of instability and rebellion, Makt had become the picture of progress under him.

And yet, Makt was the originator of Osaron.

Cora tilted her head to one side, a sly smile pulling at her lips.  _ There _ .

Something had gone wrong, something wasn’t quite right, and Holland Vosijk was determined to fix it. Fix it without anyone knowing what it was, exactly. Fix it without the mountains of money bound up in the chemical weapons. 

Cora thought some more, making a quick list as she picked apart the man. He was a war veteran -- his stature told her that much -- and well spoken, didn’t have the stink of old money and aristocracy on him. He was handsome, but wasn’t inclined to use it like so many others. She had thought the morning before that courting him could be an option, if he couldn’t be persuaded to keep making the weapon. She had flirted lightly and come up empty. Not even a glimmer of interest. At first she thought it was his daughter, that he might be holding on to whoever her mother might have been -- he wouldn’t have brought her with him if there was a mother for her to stay home with, Cora guessed. 

By the time a recess had been called for lunch, Cora understood it wasn’t her. 

It was Kell Maresh.

The two men had sat shoulder to shoulder during the talks. They had sat together during all meals over the last few days. They appeared inseparable. Vosijk and his daughter had arrived earlier than any other delegates, for no apparent reason, and Cora couldn’t help but speculate. She had a feeling it was a combination of making nice with the Arnesian king and making time with the redheaded crown prince.

Her speculation was confirmed when Kell accompanied the czar back to his bedroom at the recess. She had caught a glimpse of him at the top of the stairs, stepping closer to the other man and wrapping an arm around his waist, taking his weight as they continued walking. Kell had thought he was hidden, that no one had seen. That knowledge made her smile.

It was such a little slip up. A moment there and gone.

It meant nothing to Kell, but everything to Cora.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland pushed himself to sitting, dropping his legs over the side of Kell’s bed. He rubs the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders and admiring the work of Kell’s hands. He had pressed the pain and tension from Holland’s body, then rolled him over and made good on another, tacit promise. He did not feel altogether well, but the relief was palpable. He would sleep well tonight -- disappointment stinging when he remembered it would be in his own bed.

“Going so soon?” Kell mused, still spread out under the sheets.

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“It’s five past, Holland.”

“My point stands,” Holland laughed quietly. He slipped off the bed, collecting his shirt and jacket before pulling his trousers back up his legs. He ran a hand over his hair, his face, his neck and collarbone, then began buttoning. “As unhappy as I am to leave you looking so lovely.”

Kell laughed himself, rolling onto his back and stretching. His red hair was sweaty and tangled. The hint of a pink blush slowly cooling over his chest and shoulders. The sheets pooled at his thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

Not that Holland needed to imagine. As he dressed himself again, he let his eyes wander and linger, his mind running through the ways the man’s hands, teeth, hips had twisted him up over and over. How he had put Holland on his knees, pressed him forward, and bit tenderly along his shoulders. How none of it was new or unfamiliar, but Holland found himself understanding them anew. Pain not meant only for pain; all-consuming without swallowing him whole. It was a balancing act, this kind of trust. In his life, Holland had more often been the recipient of that trust. Rare it was that he gave it, willingly and without reservations. 

With a slow exhale, he realized it was distance allowing him to make progress. Ojka had helped him realize it wasn’t only Makt that required recovery.

“Would you like to stare a little longer?” Kell asked in a low voice as he slid closer to Holland. He rolled up onto his knees, doing up the front of Holland’s trousers and fastening his belt. As if it were the most normal thing in the world for them. Pedestrian and simple. “I’m sure we could find the time…”

“I have no doubt,” Holland murmured. Taking Kell’s face in his hands, he kisses the redhead, throwing all the warmth and affection he feels into it. The press and slide is intoxicating, both for the way it makes his insides twist, but for the safety it imparts. Nothing rushed, no looming threat of death on the horizon. It was a measure of freedom he had thought about, but had never expected to be fully realized. He broke the kiss and took a half step back. “Tomorrow. I imagine the proceedings will be just as tedious. We need our rest.”

Kell grins at him. “You sound like a parent.”

“No one’s ever accused me of that.”

“Not until now.”

“In that case, you’re right,” Kell settles back on the sheets. “Go rest. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Holland left him to his bed and sleep, slipping quietly out into the corridor and towards his bedroom. The palace was quiet, the lights dim around him as he walked down the hall, his jacket draped over his arm. He liked the silence of it and for a moment considered soaking in the shadows. 

Many nights, he would find himself wandering the halls of the Maktahn palace -- whether for nightmares or being simply unable to fall asleep. Roaming the dark halls without guards was a dangerous prospect, but he didn’t care. He could take care of himself, he always had before. And if someone was so displeased with his reign to sneak in to assassinate him, then perhaps he should take it as a sign something was amiss. The white palace had a peaceful hauntedness to it. He had long since stopped imagining that the Twins would appear around corners or in stairwells. His midnight walks became longer. He lingered more in certain places -- the regrowing courtyard, the quiet corners of the throne room, the vacated room near the kitchens that had once been his alone. 

As much as the idea called to him, Holland decided against it. He stopped at the doors to his rooms, turning the handle and stepping into the quiet inside. 

He deposited his jacket over the back of a chair and toed off his shoes. The room was dark around him. Nasi sniffed and squirmed in sleep, curled in on her side. Her dreams swung erratically between the fantastic and the terrifying. Holland had found a strange comfort in knowing the little girl too had nightmares, and often. It wasn’t unusual for her to appear at his door, searching for comfort after a bad dream. It wasn’t unusual for him to scoop her into his arms, holding her against his chest in a chair until they both fell asleep. She had been alright since they had arrived in Arnes. Holland resisted the urge to pull a chair to her side of the large bed and wait for her to bolt awake. 

The day weighed on him. His time with Kell had left him loose-limbed. He needed rest, but knew he would not get it.

The knock on his door confirmed that much.

Half-dressed and in no position to meet with anyone, Holland walked to the door and opened it. On the other side stood the Taskon princess, Cora. They had talked briefly, but she soon proved to be someone best avoided. She would not relinquish Osaron.

Holland steeled himself for an ambush. “Hello, princess.”

“Hello,” Cora smiled easily. Too easily. “May I come in?”

“It’s quite late. Can it not wait until morning?”

“No, I’m sorry. It can’t. I don’t imagine we’ll have another time to talk, you and I.” Cora’s grey eyes flickered up over his shoulder, then back to his face. “May I come in,  _ m’ya czar _ ?”

Holland blinked, surprised to hear his mother tongue, and relented. He wasn’t going to be sleeping, but he hoped this wouldn’t take long. That it wouldn’t wake Nasi. He stepped aside and let the young woman step inside. She did not move beyond the threshold, something Holland was grateful for.

“Thank you. I wanted to talk about your stance on the chemical weapons clause.”

“I’ve made my position quite clear. I’m not looking to change it.”

Cora nodded. “No, I understand that. I’m not here to glad-hand you, but to ask you why. It’s your country’s invention and you’ve filled your coffers on it. Why get rid of it?”

“It was an invention of my predecessors,” Holland answered simply, seriously. “I have no intention of continuing their legacy. My people deserve better.”

“At the expense of what?”

“At the expense of cash flow, yes, but their safety and a more sustainable income is more important to me than keeping a dangerous piece of ammunition on the market.” The words were tired and sounded as such. He had said variations of them so often that they had begun to feel rehearsed. He hoped his exhaustion with the topic was evident. Cora was young, had energy to push and argue. Holland had enough to dig his heels in and refused to be moved. “It’s dangerous on the battlefield and it’s dangerous to manufacture. I would like to see it gone.”

“So you won’t roll back that point in the treaty?”

“No. If that’s what--.”

“Would you consider selling it to Vesk?” Cora cut him off, her eyes sparking brightly. Something about the flicker reminded him far too much of Astrid Dane; it caught the breath in Holland’s throat. “If you don’t want it, we’d like it.”

“Yes, you’ve made that much clear, princess.”

“Would you consider the offer.”

“No.”

The girl looked stung. “No? Why not? You don’t want it, I do and will pay for it.”

“No.” Holland drew himself up taller. “It isn’t for sale.”

“Would you sell it to your paramour?” A wicked edge had landed in Cora’s voice. The edge of someone used to concession, used to getting her way and quickly. Sharp and looking to injure. Holland wouldn’t let it.

“Who are you referring to?”

“The crown prince,” Cora sniffed, crossing her arms. “You two seem awfully comfortable together.”

“We knew each other during the war.”

“That much is obvious. Same as your coming and going from his room late at night,” Cora shot back in a low voice. “Tell me this, Holland, because I did grow up with the Mareshes -- how is our dear Kell in bed? I’ve always wondered.”

For the first time in months, Holland stepped back into old patterns, old habits. He let his face ice over, his eyes becoming stony and hard. The very same expression he held for years in the presence of Astrid and Athos. If only the girl knew how much she resembled them. “I’m not sure I understand your question, princess.”

“Don’t be dense, it doesn’t look good on you,” Cora scoffed. “You’re sleeping with him. Is that why you won’t budge on the Osaron bit? Because you’re sweet on him and his brother --.”

Her voice cut off in a sharp gasp.

Holland’s old habits had not come back with the strength it had once had. His hand had come to settle on her collarbone, pushing her up against the wooden door with a thud. Anger spiked, cold and certain, in his limbs and thoughts. He did not want to tamp it down. He bent his head close to her ear and hissed. “I am my own man. My thoughts are mine and no other’s. I will not allow Osaron or anything like it to continue to threaten this world. I will not have blood on my people’s hands. I will not have another citizen burn to death for that sake of your countrymen’s violent desires.”

Cora stared up at him, sufficiently frightened -- or at least, he hoped she was. Somewhere behind him, Nasi’s sniffling and squirming had turned to whines and soft crying. He pushed the Veskan princess against the door, for emphasis, then released her. He stepped back, putting several feet between them, and glared.

“Get out.”

“You’ll--.”

“Don’t threaten me, princess,” Holland hissed. “I have been dealt far worse by foes bigger than you. If you’ll excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.”

He turned on his heel, escaping in the direction of Nasi. The door slammed shut when he had reached the bedside, jolting Nasi out of sleep. She stared up at him, confused and dazed, before melting into tears. Without another thought, Holland lifted her into his arms and carried her to the small sofa. He settled back against the cushions, running a soft hand over her blonde hair, patting circles over her back. Long after Nasi had cried herself out and settled back into heavy sleep, Holland stayed awake, staring at the far windows and the wall in between them. As if holding the little girl close to him would make the boiling anger, the thread of fear leave him.


End file.
